


No, I Don't

by Ixode



Category: Star Fox Series
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Grief/Mourning, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Novel, Slow Burn, Star-crossed, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 76,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ixode/pseuds/Ixode
Summary: A young pilot now-famous war hero, wracked with the weight of his current occupation and past actions, will now face a journey where his beliefs and morality will be tested at the hands of a previous enemy. With threats and danger abound, could the very enemy before him be the source of his self-discovery?He cannot predict the future, but what he does know is that nothing will be simple again.(Coming back from a short hiatus. Will be back with a new chapter in December)
Relationships: Fox McCloud/Wolf O'Donnell
Comments: 154
Kudos: 247





	1. (Prologue) Pops

A sudden burst of sound jolted Junior awake.

His two tiny paws pulled at the window handle, inviting in the scent of fresh gunpowder and biting cold from the night outside. In silence, he waited. The show began with a piercing wail as Junior traced each cluster of fireworks that soared upwards, wearing capes of smokes behind them. When they ignited into flames, Junior's eyes widened. Glimmers of golden mahogany cascaded and fell like autumn leaves, each one calling out for his attention.

And Junior responded with cheers - as much as his sparse voice would allow - to marvel in their transient beauty. Each firework was as much of a greeting as a farewell. It was cruel, he believed, that such a wonder could steam and extinguish in moments, fading as if they were never there. As if they never existed.

But in their brevity, they still had a purpose: to give recognition to his father.

Surely, Junior's father would have seen it off in the distance, wherever he was. He pitied his father not to witness his fireworks show, and yet, Junior pitied himself more. While another time would call for such celebrations, perhaps the next would not invoke the same joy. Those feelings may be lost forever to another reminisced.

So with inspiration, sketchbook, and modest pencils in hand, Junior began to draw. His hands moved along with every motion and every shimmering color that burst in the sky.

And Junior worked. His curiosity urged him along, suggesting Junior consider the fireworks imagery once more. And his mind homed in, freeze-framing the event, its singular moment dissected with careful precision.

It asked about its dimensions and configuring the lighting to enhance or draw out the shadows. Perhaps on how it could appear on a different canvas or fabric, or with oils or acrylic paints. It asked about terminology Junior never heard or learned before - to the best of his knowledge. However, he recalled techniques that had been with him for as long as he could remember. To draw, for Junior, was akin to his heartbeat or a reflex. He simply knew.

Most other children sketched from imagination to satisfy their creativity or need for self-expression. Or perhaps as a form of mimicry, their young minds reinterpreting events as best they could with mismatched shapes and unconstrained colors. However, Junior drew for preservation, for he'd learned that some moments could be framed and immortalized. Those memories could be happy if he chose to let them. If they were not, they could be shaped to his liking, molded into a hidden place where only Junior could go.

Here in every drawing, there were no limitations. Each creation was a brief respite from the demands that dictated Junior's young life. Here, the world could be simple. It could be controlled.

For Junior could not control leaving behind his quiet, desert home planet of Papetoon for the boisterous, bureaucratic intricacies of Corneria. Or why he could not step outside the sealed, silver gates of his manor without an escort, or how the flock of photographers could predict their every arrival and departure. Or the toiling lessons, from violin to etiquette, then intergalactic language studies to martial arts and more. Each consumed hours until nothing was left but the casting of darkness to sleep under, only to repeat the cycle yet again the next morning.

He could not control his mother's silent agony for her husband's safety. Engrossed in the few projects she had left, she'd veiled her suffering under housework, her son, and wine. And he certainly could not control when his father had left for work, or when he would return - if at all. Because, as his mother told him, the galaxy needs him as much as they do, and it would be selfish to contain the wonder that was his father just for themselves. She reminded him even when their conversation had not called for it, as if to remind herself as well.

What Junior did have for a father was a bounty of promises. Every birthday celebration on hold or missed childhood milestones would be made up. It did not matter if it had been an upcoming recital or merely a practice, tournament, or an award ceremony. Each event was marked on the calendar months in advance, and notifications sent family-wide. The outcome was always predictable. He would scan the room full of paired parents, only to see his mother, sitting alone. Often she would bellow a conciliatory cry loud enough for two. And next to her, was all the reassurances that an empty seat provided.

"Junior? Are you alright!?"

Junior looked up from his drawing to see his mother force open the door. As soon as they made eye contact, a look of relief washed over her face.

"Um. Yes?"

Vixy rushed to her son's side, nearly knocking over the coffee table Junior had been drawing upon. Junior felt his face practically tugged apart by his cheeks, as Vixy frantically patted him down to find any possible injury. She did not let him escape her grasp until she examined him twice over again. Her body deflated with a haggard sigh.

"One of the ensigns found me on the floor and told me he heard screaming in here, so I rushed as fast as I could and-" She keeled over as best she could within her corseted gown, placing her hands on her waist and giving herself a moment to catch her breath. "You know, I don't know why he couldn't have just checked on you."

"Daddy told them he didn't want people in his dressing room." Junior then lowered his voice as if someone else had been listening. "You know, since the incident."

"Oh, please, when that fan snuck behind the scenes at Good Morning Corneria? A child, like you, no less. Let your father tell the story, and you would have thought the kid would kidnap him and ransom him off to pirates."

"Still scary, though."

"Well, since you're alright, I could use a break from the crowds."

Wandering about the room, Vixy fussed about with a rack clothing, a row of tuxedos and accessories tightly packed by the family's personal assistant. She stops mid-rummage, mouth agape. An eyesore of an ostentatious, melon-colored suit, conspicuously bellowed out amidst the muted pack of grays and blacks. The melon theme was a bit too literal with accents of bright pink at the cuffs and collar. But honestly, the icing on this lopsided, crumbling cake of fashion was the embellishments of gold chevrons that hugged the arms. The low grumble that left Vixy's throat was one Junior knew she reserved for only the greatest of disappointments.

She held the suit away from her as if it were soiled. "Out or in?"

Junior lifted his gaze off his drawing for a split second. "Out."

"That's another thing you inherited from my genes - good taste. I told your father that he didn't need to hire a stylist. He has us for that."

A clumsy tower of wrapped presents and gift baskets barricaded a corner of the dressing room, nearly toppling over at its great height. Vixy looked about, urgently trying to dispose of the evidence in her hands. She tossed the suit towards the gifts, which managed to slip through the cracks. Junior wondered if it even hit the floor.

Next to the tower was the vanity, its mirror lit in a circle of lights. It held several party favors, namely bite-sized cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches and other snacks that Junior did not bother to pick through. Too many vegetables, not enough meat. She examined a bottle of champagne, a particular brand that Junior could never pronounce, but knew was expensive. The bottle delicately floated in a silver bucket, submerged in melted ice and condensation.

Vixy shook her head. "I take it your father still isn't here then."

"No, mom. I've been looking out the window. Nothing yet."

Vixy's shoulders suddenly pricked up, attempting to contain her anger. "The flight academy hosts thousands of important dignitaries to give the Star Fox team an honorary recognition award. You'd think your father would be the first to show up. I can only apologize to the General so much for delaying the ceremony. Pepper is a relatively patient man, but I'm sure even he has his limits."

It had been hours now since Junior retreated to the back halls within the Cornerian Flight Academy's ballroom. Their limousine had arrived outside, all decorated with banners of Star Fox's logo. A blinding torrent of camera flashes stung his eyes when the door had opened to the sprawled red carpet before them. As Junior stumbled to get his footing, he searched for the comfort of his mother's guiding hand. Yet, it did little to brace the incoming waves of noise that crashed upon him, the incessant buzzing of each media drone, and the rows of photographers that argued amongst each other to get Junior to look their way.

The sea of onlookers was wild with adulation. Each one brandished pens and photographs like primitive weapons, their desperate cries howling through the night, hoping to sate their painstaking desires for vicarious extravagance that may never be fulfilled.

Herded and contained beyond the velvet rope, they had stood and waited for days on end, sustained by their fanatical urge to gorge upon a glimpse of their hero. It reminded Junior of his recent field trip to the city zoo and how his classmates had ogled at the animals caged for their amusement.

But were the fans the animals? Or was it his family on display?

Junior looked back one final time. As much as the crowds upset him, he understood. Just beyond that rope, Junior could picture himself there alongside the fans. As if he were in his bedroom, looking beyond to the skies, wondering which star his father had been flying towards, or if this would be the day he would return home.

But the fans would have to wait. Junior needed his time with his father before any of them could latch on. They did not understand him as he could. After all, Junior was his father's only child.

A Cornerian party was a puzzling event. Inside, there had been no reprieve to the madness that laid upon its doorstep. Here, chaos overloaded each of his senses. The loud music pierced his eardrums and addled his thoughts. Hundreds of guests in lavish, gaudy outfits scattered about with dripping libations in hand, weaving in and out of the crowd like a busy intersection at downtown Corneria City. If he had left his mother's side, he undoubtedly would have been carried away by the stream of people like a rushing riverside, never to return home.

It was their eyes that Junior hated the most: all focused upon him, scores of people he never once knew, but they knew of him. Junior knew their inquiries were harmless enough, but it was their expectations that were daunting.

It was always the same. The guests greeted him, complimented his appearance, perhaps the redness of his coat, or how large and expressive his ears were. The conversation would turn to him, and the people would wait for a response, but the pressure to perform - to be his son - was far too immense.

Junior could hear the words in his head. He knew of the right words to say - a simple 'thank you' should suffice. Yet, he could feel his jaw clench, and his tongue flail in a stutter. His throat congested by the words that would never leave him. Like a tennis game, the conversation was served to him, but he just did not understand how to serve it back. The attendees smiled and praised him regardless, but there was disappointment hidden behind their words. He was sure of it.

Not all of the people had seemed pleased to be in attendance, particularly the ones in uniform. The officers congregated about against the walls and corners of the room, stern and uptight, arms folded as if to ward off a conversation. Junior noticed that the more badges and medals decorated their uniforms, the more displeasure scrunched up their noses with wrinkles cemented upon their foreheads. Some of the men Junior recognized. They often worked side by side with his father on past missions. Now, Junior was unsure why their attitudes had changed.

How his mother was able to tame the flock was beyond him. Stiff within a radiant, restrictive white gown, a glint in her eyes complemented her coy, tight-lipped smile. Arms in front and fingers interlocked, she stood there, helpless to do anything but regard their curiosities.

To anyone who did not know her, she appeared genial and effervescent. However, Junior knew his mother well. She had skillfully displaced her ire. She occasionally looked off into the distance, her eyes going to a faraway place, where Junior knew he could not bring her back from.

Vixy was not one to indulge herself despite the wealth they accumulated, which made relating to most of the guests who relished in their luxuries almost impossible. They would huddle around her, flinging their poorly crafted flattery until their words lacked authenticity. They were not there for her, perhaps not even for her husband. She knew this was simply a gathering of wealthy socialites, catering to their sycophancy until the next party arrived.

She would have asked if she had wanted to know every inherited achievement or hear another self-serving, opportunistic monologue. She never did.

Guilt arose on Junior when he had asked to retreat to the safety of his father's dressing room. He did not want to leave his mother to fend for herself, but he had reached his limit. So, when his mother finally joined him, Junior managed a tail wag or two for the company despite her agitation.

Making herself comfortable on the couch with a glass of champagne, Vixy caught a glimpse of her son methodically continuing to draw. "Oh." She waited to swallow before speaking again. "Are you drawing Coyote Jones again?"

"No, I'm not, and-" Junior felt his heart stop briefly. "Mom! Did you go through my notebooks again?!"

"I'm sorry, dear. If you don't want Mr. Jones to be seen, don't leave him out in your bedroom."

Hunched over his drawing, Junior narrowed his eyes. "Coyote Jones and his space adventures is a series in progress and its super, duper, top-secret work. He's not ready to be seen just yet. Being a galaxy-famous bounty hunter is important."

"Such as?"

"Like fighting off pirates and their evil plans to fire meteors into Corneria. Or stopping them from rounding up aliens from another galaxy to unleash a full-scale war. You know, the super-heroic stuff."

Even if it was just his mother, it was a bit unnerving to have his work be under scrutiny. Junior never intended his drawings to be seen by anyone but himself. He had little time to draw when he had not been in class, but it was important to him to make time, especially for the space cowboy.

The drifter of the asteroid belt. A cowboy to the stars. Wrangler of every evildoer that threatened peace within the Lylat System. There was nothing Coyote could not do. No task or job he was unable to achieve.

And he always followed the code of the Space Drifter: Seek out justice wherever you could find it. And if there was none - then simply make your own.

The lawless underground spoke his name through hushed whispers and dire warnings. The debauched, affluent elites were desperately concealing any trace of corruption over the unfortunate lesser class. But their efforts would be in vain. A crime wrapped in lies was destined to be unraveled. For nothing could mask the unmistakable stench of brimstone that emitted from villainy.

And the universe would turn the eternal wheel in its creaking circular motions, returning to those they have wrought. For some, karma would manifest into physical form, summoned at the cascade of sunset, and Coyote would appear before them.

Onboard a hover motorcycle that could travel at light speed, whipping a laser lasso that could unerringly sense and snare evil. Spurs upon distressed boots that jangled a hymn of courage in his allies and apprehension to his foes. With a tip of his edge-sharpened, wide-brimmed crown of a western hat, he spun a toothpick with his tongue to his adversary and said: "If ya got any last words - then direct it to your gods. I'm runnin' out of fucks to give, and I ain't gonna waste what's left on you."

Junior assumed his mother had not entirely devoured the contents of his sketches since he was spared (yet) from reprimand for a few forbidden words in his dialogue. At least Junior thought it was cool. Coyote Jones had meant more to Junior than just another cartoon. He was more akin to an imaginary friend as well as an idol. His legacy revered in mock comic covers and drafts of future advertisements - just like professional ones in the stores - all packaged and secured within his backpack that never left his side.

Vixy attempted to steal another glance. "From what I've seen, he's certainly very rugged and heroic and all, but he reminds me a bit of your father. They kind of do the same thing. You know, protecting Corneria from outside threats and all that. Why don't you draw more of the Star Fox team like you used to?"

Junior's stomach rolled. "I don't want to right now."

"But why?" She took another sip. "I miss seeing those pictures on your bedroom walls."

"Yeah, but-" Junior's ears flattened as far as possible. "It's just not the same anymore."

Vixy choked on her champagne. She pounded her chest, stumbling over her breathing for a split moment. "A-anyway. If you're not drawing Coyote, what are you drawing?"

"I'm drawing the firework show that daddy missed. I figured he would want to see it." Junior relinquished the huddle around his drawing. "It's not just me in there. See? You and daddy are there on the hill watching me fly through the rockets and color."

Vixy squinted, analyzing a particularly odd detail. "Why is your tail on fire?"

"Because I'm a rocket, mom. Just like the firework show. How else am I supposed to fly?" Junior said plainly. "When he left a month ago on his last job, I didn't give him anything. So I wanted to draw him a picture so he would have something to remember us with for next time."

Vixy chewed on her bottom lip, then patted her son's head. "You know, I think you're developing into quite the artist."

"It's not that great. Besides, it's just colored pencils from the craft store."

"Nonsense. You already have a great technique for your age. Who knows? Maybe we can enroll you at the Fine Arts School downtown. They teach every kind of art, dance and music you can think of. Sure, it will make your already tight schedule even tighter, but maybe we can make a few compromises with your father."

"Do they teach flying at the art school too? Like how to pilot a plane or like daddy's arwing?"

Vixy recoiled, clenching her teeth. "Most likely, no."

"Oh." Junior abruptly stopped before beginning to shade the background. "That won't work then. Daddy said that when I get older, I'd have to attend here at the flight academy as he did."

"Yes, well, your father can say whatever he likes." His mom rolled her eyes. "Besides, you're still in elementary school. That's a long way away. Who knows where life will take you? You shouldn't have to do the things your father does to make a living."

Looking about, Vixy then beckoned her son to move in closer, cupping her hands towards his ears. "I have a secret, you know. But you have to promise you won't tell anyone, alright?"

Junior hummed in response, his ears alert with anticipation.

"Your mommy has special powers."

"R-really?" Junior almost gasped in disbelief.

"Yes, I do. My special power is I can make wishes turn into reality. I wish for your father to return to us every time he's on a mission, and it always works! And I have a good hunch that if you want to go to that art school, you'll be able to attend. Good things are bound to keep happening for our family if we just continue to believe. I know it will."

"I think so too." Junior nodded, reaching for the black pencil in the container of supplies, shading the final touches to his father's favorite accessory. Tentatively, Junior raised his drawing before him, with shy green eyes barely visible behind it. "Do you think it's finished?"

Vixy looked over the drawing once more. Her fingers glided over the trail of colors lightly, skipping over the arwings that flew through the fireworks and stopping short just where the happy couple stood underneath, hand-in-hand. Above them was Junior, who was heroic in his interpretation, guided by a jet of fire that propelled him into the stars. Pride glowed from her expression, yet her voice had pangs of faint sadness. "I think it's perfect."

Junior's cheeks scrunched upward. Even a large picture could not mask a smile of such volume.

The door popped open. A pair of long, grey ears slid in and then quickly retreated to the hall. "Oops. Sorry! Didn't mean to interrupt anything. I figured the two of you would be in here."

"Uncle Peppy!" Junior jumped up and ran to welcome the hare inside.

Stumbling in, Peppy offered several timid bows. He then greeted the kit in return with an embrace. "Junior! I've meant to thank you for my lovely drawing. I can't remember the last time I was that thin on camera, but at least on paper seems to do me justice. I even had it framed. It sits right next to my desk, along with the rest of my family photos."

"It's no problem. The first one is on the house. I'll have to ask for a commission fee for the next one." Junior looked right into Peppy's eyes, practical in his delivery.

"Ahem. If anything, my son and I should be thanking you." Vixy walked over and placed her hands upon her son's shoulders. "Isn't that right, dear?" Now with a talon-like grip. Junior nods sprightly - getting the memo. She turned her attention back to Peppy. "Knowing that your sensibility has been supporting James all this time helps me sleep easier at night."

"Don't think anything of it, Vix. What are best friends for? And I'll always be right there. Well, that is until the money dries up." Peppy winked at Junior, who attempted to wink back, though it looked more like a bug had flown and stuck in his eye. Thankfully, the attempt was more than endearing to his uncle Hare.

Underneath an unassuming and willful guise, Peppy Hare was a man of many faces. A scholar in soldier's clothing. An optimist grounded in reality. One that believed conventions were meant to be broken, assuming that it was the best course of action after all others had been exhausted. Junior wondered why such a font of wisdom could exhibit such humbleness and bashfulness simultaneously.

Not one for the spotlight or arguments, Peppy gravitated to seeking serenity wherever he could find it. Odd philosophy for a mercenary. Fame was an unintended development for Peppy, but never did it deter his course. For recognition could not always promise a meal upon a table, or ensure his wife and daughter were warm and safe in their beds when he was gone. Laurels were never meant to be rested upon, let alone even considered.

But something was missing. One unidentifiable, lost ingredient in the mix that paled all of Peppy's great qualities without it. Conditions that were overlooked by others, obscured by the brighter, flamboyant persona that was Junior's father. Despite this, there was no jealousy or spite from the copilot. And if there was, Peppy did an exceptional job of hiding it behind his affable demeanor.

"Oh, and Peppy?" Vixy said. "Please tell me James is with you."

"Yes, he's right behind me and-" Peppy looked back, twisting his neck about in almost owl-like fashion. He returned to Vixy, dumbfounded. "He was…literally just following me a moment ago."

Vixy let out a growl of frustration. "And where is your other copilot?"

Junior tugged at his mother's dress then pointed down the hall toward the source of clamor, all centered around one rowdy individual - Pigma Dengar. The final Star Fox member was adorned in a particularly ritzy outfit, though unfortunately stained with an unknown red substance (most likely the shrimp cocktail scavenged by the nearby kitchen). The stain was the least of the tuxedo's worries, almost bursting at the seam from Pigma's exceedingly increasing waistline - among other things.

Though it was more than apparent than Pigma savored the attention, he displayed an air of aloofness to his swarm of event photographers. Junior was unsure if the photographers came of their own volition or were simply commanded to do so.

"Didn't I tell you before?! My left side is my best angle," snapped Pigma quickly to an event photographer nearby, then took her camera to look over the photographs. He snorted back to the entourage of attendants behind him. "Amateurs. This is where our military's budget goes. They couldn't even bother to hire a real professional. Do you know how many times I've put my life on the line only to get this kind of service?!"

"There you are Pigma!" Peppy made his way and intruded between the cameras' line of fire, seemingly unaware of Pigma's displeasure of being deprived of another photo opportunity.

"I've been ready, Hare." Pigma gritted his teeth. "Lucky you have me and my natural charm to appease the crowd here in our amazing leader's absence. Again."

"Do you happen to know where James went?" Peppy suppressed an eye roll.

Pigma snorts again, less out of agitation than more to catch his breath. "Do I look like a professional transport service? How about you go and bring him out here? I think I need my face touched up a bit. I don't think I'm completely ready for the front page cover."

Vixy pursed her lips, incredulous. "We've got minutes to spare for the ceremony, not hours."

Pigma stopped himself and then looked Vixy up and down. "I can see where most of the credits from our last mission went to."

"The dress is rented, Pigma," Vixy scowled, unamused. "Along with the jewels."

"I wasn't referring to your outfit." Pigma licked his lips as he panted through his mouth. His eyes trailed the curves of Vixy's silhouette.

Disgust boiled in Junior's gut as the swine appraised his mother with those sunken, greasy eyes and tongue let loose to his bottom lip. Never once had such a reaction stirred within him before. And like with his drawings, Junior's body moved without consideration, intervening between Pigma and his mother, clutching upon her legs. The once shy eyes that refused to meet another's gaze, now emblazoned with a faint ember of courage.

Pigma grunted, refusing to look down at the small child. "Hey, kid."

"Hey," Junior said with a muted tone. A hello without a greeting. A rehearsed exchange frequently occurred between them, both wishing the pleasantry be over as soon as possible.

Junior never cared for Pigma, for he knew that Pigma never cared for him. If Junior was alone with his father's crew, he always beelined to Peppy. The obvious answer was Junior hated the swine's bitter stench, how he spat a storm when he talked, or his complete lack of spatial awareness when he moved about - people or objects alike be damned in his wake.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Pigma was more than cognizant of his brash behaviors, but never took accountability for any of them. The universe was designed to cater to Pigma's needs - not the other way around. But Junior's father had taught him always to trust his instincts. So he listened, for every bit of it told Junior to stay away from the large swine. He only wished his father would do the same.

"Ugh, he's doing it again. Still as weird as ever." Pigma glanced over to see the apparent scorn in Junior's eyes. "Always watching, like he's looking right through me. Vixy, your kid is a bit off."

"Junior is simply very observant." Vixy gave a comforting pat to Junior's head. "Signs of a true intellectual."

Pigma couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, but what kind of intellect, exactly? Even the great savants tend to lack the good social graces like the one I possess."

"Yes, Pigma. You're truly the shining paragon of social excellence." Vixy managed a frosty whisper under her breath.

Peppy scrambled up, scratching behind his ear. "I just got word from the staff that they're expecting us on stage in ten. With or without him."

"I guess we will have to improvise and hope for the best." Vixy looked at her son. "Junior, go ahead and wait back in the dressing room. If your father happens to show up finally, tell him to get to the stage as soon as possible, alright?"

Junior nodded and then felt himself being pushed along by Peppy's careful hands to urge mother and child together, defusing the tense situation. They hurried off, but not before Peppy called out to his copilot one last time. "Don't be late, Dengar! We have to meet Pepper behind the stage as soon as they call for us!"

"Whatever." Pigma swiped a plate of food off a nearby server's dish that was about to head back to the party floor. He began to lumber back to his own dressing room. "If you happen to see the big shot hero back there, let him know that every time he's late, our contract rates go down!"

Junior made his way back to the dressing room, but not before hearing a heated exchange as Peppy and Vixy stomped away at lightning speed.

"When the hell is my husband going to find a replacement for that oaf?!"

"When James will listen to me, that's when!"

"How does he put up with that…that bastard's bullshit?!"

"You're his wife! You should know!"

"You're his best friend! You've known him longer!"

As the two slipped away back onto the floor, something appeared in the crossfire of Junior's vision. Junior turned, swearing that he saw a shadow move back into his father's dressing room. He inched towards the door, opening the handle and peeked inside.

A man took Junior by surprise. The figure, who was adjusting his tie, then jolted and began frantically patting down his sides, as if reaching for something that should have been there. His efforts fruitless, he growled, pummeling a hard fist to the wall that shook the room, knocking over the top stack of gifts. "Damn it! Didn't I say I don't want any visitors and-" He finally looked up - subdued. "Oh."

Junior's knee jerk reaction was to pinch himself. His father had existed more in his memories than he did in his waking moments. But, here he was, in the flesh. Uncharacteristically caught off-guard, confidence squelched momentarily as his natural magnetism slowly impresses back into his features.

James McCloud's rise to fame was beyond meteoric: it was perhaps even extra-dimensional. A man like James McCloud only comes once a millennium, whose vision for a peaceful galaxy was made possible through his unwavering instinct and prodigious skill. And that same drive tirelessly pushed him forward to his goal, uninfluenced by reformation or ulterior motives. It was pure, condensed energy. Otherworldly and raw, with the ability to change all that he touches - except for himself.

With great skill comes remarkable duty and responsibility, which demands to abandon one's needs and emotional ties for the sake of the mission. An air of detachment always kept James level-headed during clusters of enemy gunfire or making crucial last-minute decisions in the heat of combat. Emotions were but streams of water flowing downwards, destined to one day collect to a river and then traverse to an ocean. Yet they would never reach James McCloud, whose ambition had given him wings, soaring above earthly imperfections that cannot be solved by idealism and logic.

And Junior watched from where he stood, tipping upon his toes with hands raised high, beckoning for his father to be earthbound again one day. But he had ascended, posed atop a lofty pedestal by the Cornerian people he saved on countless occasions, forever out of reach. So the charismatic enigma sat, leaving those wondering, never granting the satisfaction of the insight to his true feelings. And perhaps, this was precisely how James McCloud wished it to be.

"Daddy!" Junior flung open the door and practically jumped in his father's arms, eliciting a firm 'oof' as he landed directly on his father's gut.

"Up high." James held out an open palm, which Junior promptly smacked with his own.

"Down low." Junior responded once more with another clap of his hand.

Junior then embraced James' shoulders tightly, a hug so secure as if to make up for the backlog of weeks of missing hugs. His voice was muffled by the crick of his father's neck. "Too slow."

Standing and holding his son up to his level, James suddenly spun several times in quick succession. Junior's legs flailed about as laughter from both father and son filled the room. Feigning in jest, James gagged as Junior's embrace never relented. "How is my future copilot been holding up?"

"Ok. I've just missed you so much." Junior said, having been placed down.

"I've missed you too, kiddo. Can you do me a favor? I could have sworn I told our assistant to get me a particular suit I ordered. I just can't seem to find it."

"She must have forgotten it." Junior briefly glanced over to the pile of gifts. By now, the suit must have sprawled and wrinkled it's moss-like green upon the floor. "Besides, green isn't your color. Just stick with the one mom suggested."

"Green isn't my…what?" James's jaw went slack. "Kind of an odd thing to say for someone of your age. You're still enrolled in some kind of sport, yeah?"

"Several, actually."

Junior could barely make out his father's brow furrowing beneath his shades. "Good. Maybe enough physical contact will rough that train of thought of color and what not right out of you." The commentary felt more like a warning than a suggestion.

The kind nature instilled within Junior brushed off his father's words, and he quickly made it over to the coffee table, creeping back to his father with his drawing hidden behind his back. "I have something for you. I hope you like it." He then held the picture high into the air, beaming with delight.

James plucked the art and gave it a good look over. "Wowee, kiddo. This is beautiful. Where did you buy it?"

"Huh?" Junior tilted his head. "I made it."

James paused for a moment. Junior abated in silence as he watched his father's eyes - still obscured by his sunglasses - moved about in all directions, scrutinizing his art. "Really? Well, jeez, this…this is something, alright! I'm going to put this right over here with the rest of the gifts, ok?"

Junior felt faint dizziness that lasted a mere second. Catching up to his father, Junior attempted to point out the details with his fingers. "But did you see what I did? I drew the fireworks show as best I could because you missed it. I also drew mom and you and me and-"

"Yep. Saw it. Really great."

"Well. Ok." Junior's expression dulled slightly. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he watched his art dumped upon the pile of gifts that all warranted less than a single glance from his father.

Junior winced. "Where were you? Everyone is looking for you. They are getting ready to head out to accept your award."

"Son, I operate on my own time. McCloud Central. This is my party, right? The galaxy won't crumble apart if the ceremony gets pushed back an hour. If I'm gone for weeks on a job, they can wait a couple of minutes."

"It's more like four hours, dad."

"Huh. Four, you say?" James clicked his tongue several times in a fluster. "Maybe it's time to head out. Come on, Junior. Let's show the military how the McCloud's roll."

"I have to…go on stage?" Junior's face flushed cold. His ears flattened. His fingers spasmed erratically as blood forcibly rushed through at a quickened pace.

To go back upon the floor - let alone to be on stage. Junior would do anything else but to make that happen. Anything.

What if he tripped as he made his way to the podium? What if he stuttered when he answered the media's questions? The attention, the focus, would fall right upon him. He looked to the door to escape. The rack of clothing to hide in. To the windows where he watched the fireworks - wondering if he could fall and survive from the height. Logic told him that such a feat was not worth the risk, but his nerves pushed and screamed at him to reconsider.

"I-I don't want to go back out there," Junior spoke as he stared at the window, unblinking. "The crowds make me nervous, and the cameras hurt my eyes and-"

"What? Now isn't the time, Junior. Come on." James grabbed his son's hand, sapping Junior from his delusion, and pulled him to the door.

Tugging back at his father's hand, Junior stood his ground, tears pooling in his eyes. "Please. I really, really don't want to. Can't I stay here until the award ceremony is over?"

"Now, Junior. This is a family event."

"Please!? This is your hero ceremony, not mine."

Sighing at the words, James sharpened his tone. "Son. Did you forget what daddy told you? He said not to say that word around him, right?"

"I know, but-"

"But what, exactly?"

Junior desperately slipped out from his father's grasp. "You are a hero, right? Then you can go do it - it doesn't have anything to do with me!"

"Junior." James' voice knelled in caution.

"And I don't understand why you don't want us to say it? You have no problem when anyone does. How come mom and I can't? You're my hero. I just don't understand-"

"What did I just tell you!?" James snapped back as his sunglasses chipped and clanked to the floor. Rage had burst from every inch of his face. "Never - ever - call me that! We've been over this almost a hundred times now! Daddy. Hates. That. Word. And no matter how many times I politely ask the two of you, it never seems to register, does it?!"

And James continued to seethe - panting as if his mouth went dry. Anger creased the crow's feet that wrapped around his father's weary eyes - wrinkles that Junior never recognized until this moment.

The shock of his father's anger stunned Junior to silence. The excitement he once had bottled up fizzled into sheer disappointment. Tears that welled up before now finally broke free. "But…why?"

James swore profusely under his breath. He sat at the vanity chair, hands holding his face, sunken. "I'm sorry, Junior. Daddy is a bit tired lately. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. You're too young to understand this now. It's just the things that daddy has to do at work don't always make him feel like a hero. Not how a hero should act."

"Listen to me, my son. There's a reason why I asked the two of you not to say that word around me." His father looked up. Solemn and exhausted. "The thing about heroes is that you're only truly loved when you're long gone."

Junior felt himself fading from the conversation. Visions of sound - not sight - rang out from within his mind.

A flint struck against a stone. A firm knock against a wooden door. An echo of words that now became a refrain.

These words had power. It resonated within the young boy's body from within his bones. Words never once were spoken, but Junior knew that he had heard them before, perhaps even before his birth. A foreboding eulogy of the future. Blissfully unaware that it is now forever etched into the young boy's memory.

"We just got to get through this night. And unfortunately, it's a family event, so no walking out of this one. Fits the image of their angle for Star Fox. Which means I need my lovely wife at my side and my adorable son for that perfect front page cover." James attempted his best take at contrived cheer with a smile that was weighed down by downcast, regretful eyes. "Besides, what do I always tell you?"

"Um." Junior put a finger to his mouth. "Fine words butter no parsnips?"

"Uh, yes, I do say that, but the other one that I usually say."

"What can't be cured must be endured?"

"That's usually my line for when the cameras are around, but no."

"Genius is only a greater aptitude for patience-"

"Anyway!" James playfully wedged a set of knuckles into his son's head. "Nice try, but the one I always say: every cloud has a silver lining. You know, because we're the McCloud family?" Snickering with a hint of stress, James paused for the slightest acknowledgment from his son. "You understand what I mean by that, right?"

Wide-eyed, Junior only managed a blink. "Yes."

James continued to look over his son's expression. His ears lowered, unconvinced, and shook his head.

"Uh, how can I put this. There are going to be situations in our lives that are difficult. Sometimes they can be so hard that we can't always see the end or understand why we had to deal with it in the first place. But there's always a bit of good even with the bad. We can make that choice to change a bad situation into a positive one, just depends on our perspective. You have to bust through those dark, stormy clouds to reach the castle in the sky, kiddo."

Junior nodded once more with his expression just as heedful.

"I'm over exaggerating with the clouds motif, aren't I?" James offered a lopsided grin.

"Maybe." And in return, Junior cracked a genuine smile on his face.

"In all seriousness," Kneeling to his son's level, James placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "When I devoted myself to this cause, I gave up that luxury to be a free man again or being just a simple pilot. This isn't about what you or I want anymore. I don't have a choice. We don't have a choice. That is the price that we have to pay now."

Junior could not look at his father in the eyes.

"Always remember: We are McClouds. Cream of the crop. Crème de la crème. The blood you and I share was the same that my father, Callum McCloud, had possessed. Your granda was the best man I've ever known. He instilled within me the values and morals that have set me on the path to where I am now. And as my son, I know that you too will be destined for greatness. Because a McCloud always stays positive, endures, and smiles through the worst of it."

His father had just hit him with the mantra. _The_ mantra. It was their ritual. A practiced standard just as one would shake a hand, hold a door for another, or wave goodbye. Junior stood within his awkwardness as the looping record played over and over again in his mind. He held his other elbow, sheepish. James waited regardless.

Junior directed his indolence to the floor. "We're positive, we endure, and we, um, smile through the worst of it."

The words seemed to cleanse the negativity from the room magically. James picked up his shades, placing them snug in place and sprung upward. Hands to his hips, a gallant posture, with the same gumption and effervescence he had before. The hero had returned once again. It was still his father, but rather the father he knew through the extranet appearances and the witty catchphrases during interviews. Like how everyone else knew him.

"That's my boy!" James patted Junior's head a bit too hard for his liking. "Now, let's put on our happy face as we practiced for the media, ok?" Putting two fingers to the edges of his muzzle, James bared his iconic and superlative (and trademarked) smile. Glimmering, flawless pearly whites that looked as if they could repel a bullet. "Can you do that for me? Just like this, yeah?"

And Junior did just as he was told. A full, unnatural smile, with missing teeth and all. His facial muscles tensed up, shivering to hold their position for as long as he could.

"James. Callum. McCloud!" Busting through the room with a chastising shriek, Vixy made no effort to hide her displeasure. "Where in the stars have you been!? Pepper just called for us for the final time. We were going to proceed without you! You better have a good explanation for this and-" Vixy stopped dead in her tracks as she looked upon her son. "Junior, honey, what are you doing?"

Junior spoke through his teeth, his lips quivering to hold the position. "I'm using my happy face."

"Indeed." Vixy could only cringe in response. "James, dear. He doesn't have to go if he prefers to stay here."

"He's going." The callousness returned to James' tone. "If he can't even go on a mere stage in front of people, how can he expect to carry on the family name?"

The married couple stared at each other down for several seconds until Vixy relented. She offered a hand to her son along with remorse in her frown. "Just…just stand between your father and I. That's all you need to do, ok? I promise."

A chill air washed over Junior. Nausea churned in his gut. The stage. He would have to go on stage.

The family's hurried feet stirred wind as they left the room. Junior caught a glimpse of his drawing that he made for his father, sketched with care and affection, as it suddenly slipped through the stack of gifts. Silently - most likely falling right on top of the suit his mother disposed of. His back felt naked, missing the knapsack of artwork slouching over by the couch. It had always been tethered to his side. He wanted to bring it with him onstage, now more than ever.

If Coyote Jones were here, he would get down on one knee, tip his cowboy hat with a wink, and would ask Junior what he truly wanted to do. And no matter what Junior said - Coyote would listen. He would suggest; he would not demand. Or maybe, Coyote would grab him by the waist like a crate or barrel and lug Junior away on his flying motorcycle. They would go on an adventure, just the two of them, a wondrous place that was worthwhile and not trapped by the academy's stuffy conventions.

"Now, Junior!" His father yanked him right out of his daydream and into the hallway. The clasped hands of mother and child hurriedly following behind the head of the household.

With every step toward the auditorium of the ballroom floor, the murmur of the crowd beyond the damask curtains soon grew to a blaring roar. Junior's hands palmed with sweat, occasionally slipping out of his parents' grips. But he held on as best he possibly could. His father's grip squeezed and compressed his small hand, binding his fingers in a row. A silent, painful reminder that Junior had lost his smile.

As Junior heard General Pepper's introduction to the Star Fox team, the family began to make their way up the steps with Peppy and Pigma close behind them.

The eyes of the crowd - they would see him crumble. The unrelenting gaze of every man and woman, impaling him, broadcasting their dissatisfaction at the future heir. They would judge his faults, watch him stutter and trip, and they would laugh.

They would ruin him.

His mind bleached over with a stolid white as he took his first steps on stage. Yet, he stood and dragged on.

Because Junior knew: this was not about him.

This was not about anything at all.


	2. Outlier

**Act One**

"When I was a child, I truly loved:  
Unthinking love as calm and deep  
as the North Sea. But I have lived,  
And now I do not sleep."

_John Gardner, Grendel_

* * *

He used to bend the will of the earth.

Carved its body with wood and metal tools, all to form tiny wombs that sheltered new life. Each seed offspring found its new home, gently scattered by coarse jute gloves. Then kneaded into the ground like a baker would a fresh dough. His mother advised him not to stay out in the garden for too long. Her nose twitched with a buzz, and a chill washed over her skin—a premonition of a storm that seemed so distant beyond the sun's orange-pink rays.

The damp forest air flooded his nose. He reached for the water bucket - then blinked. A droplet fell upon his eyelid like a sudden kiss from the sky, a grey blanket stitched with the dark purple welts of storm clouds. The rain fell upon him in a gentle rhythm, just as his mother predicted. Yet, his hands deftly worked as he welcomed the rain that glided deeper into his fur, washing away the heat of his labor along with his worries.

The blissful shock of having arrived at the winding knolls of the Great Cornerian Mountain range would never leave him. His feet, calloused from years of Papetoon's burning sands, were now cushioned and soothed by fibrous green as far as he could see. No longer did he have to trek through barren, dusted fields with a parched throat. To wait for the nightfall that would dissipate the blistering heat, or to monitor for treacherous sandstorms that could cut the skin like jagged, flying glass.

Corneria had offered new possibilities. It had provided a new life.

On that first day, he remembered watching his mother from a distance. With dirt-stained jeans, her hands deep in the soil, the sun gentle upon her golden-red fur. Unleashed euphoria in unheeded, tearful laughter that had been quelled for so many years - until exhaustion stifled her cries. He first mistook the emotion like sadness, until a small eddy of forest wind picked up her hair, revealing the most enormous smile he had ever seen on his mother's face.

And the very same forest wind pumped freedom back into her veins. Relief cleansed her soul. She had finally returned to her home planet at last.

Gardening was their project together, just mother and son. She had no particular favorite flower, for every plant had its turn in her garden. He would run downstairs through the backdoor to the yard, and she appeared and called him over, showing the new bounty that sprung from her garden.

"Look, darling." The echo of her voice rang in his mind. Her palms cupped together and held outward. "Look at what we made together."

Often it was a bundle of flowers - tulips this time. It filled the vase his father had gifted her by the kitchen windowsill. Each petal was magnetically bold with varying shades of red. She insisted that red was his lucky color. It brought out not just the chartreuse of his eyes but the best qualities he possessed: bravery, passion, and ambition.

He scoffed at the thought. Qualities only a mother could have seen for their child. Warily, he accepted, embarrassment built into each praise, yet the shame rested upon a foundation of stifling guilt. How could she have seen something that he couldn't see within himself?

As of late, the vase remained hollow.

Instead of the garden, he often found her in the kitchen, lost in a sea of copper and iron cookware. Toiling about as if preparing a feast for a crowd that would never arrive. Pantry and cupboards flung open, plastered in dustings of flour and sugar. The oven was a ceaseless blaze and hosted several spring stews on top and fruit pies within. Next to her were several bottles of her favorite spiced wine - corks conveniently misplaced along with their contents.

He would ask what was wrong, but each time he was met with mellow dismissal. A smile and pat on the head to assure her son that he did not have to worry: but he knew better. She leaned to the side, strands of hair disheveled from her ponytail. Counting the days when she was last in contact with her husband since he went off to battle. The fear of losing him caged her heart.

When he saw the vase empty, he would venture deep into the summer woods as the afternoon sun trickled through the openings of leaves and branches. Following along the shelter of cooling shade, he strapped on a burlap backpack and scoured the forest floor. He would eventually return home with muddy footprints at the door and the cuffs of his pants soaked in creek water.

Before his mother could scold him, he showed the bounty of wildflowers and shrubbery garnished with fragrant lavender petals and clove stalks. A makeshift bouquet that was cleverly dual purposed as potpourri.

At first glance at her son's creation, she loosed her slated hands to her hips, then took her son in her arms - along with the dirt and dampness. For a moment, albeit briefly, her smile would return. The same smile that awoke him on bright mornings or reassured him over scraped knees. Gauging his success by the volume and duration of her joy, he praised himself. Perhaps his next creation would make her smile last even longer than before.

He used to bend the will of the earth. Now, the only thing that Fox McCloud wilfully bent was the lounge chair that sunk to match his slender figure. He propped his legs on the chair's arm, his body stiff and arms crossed as if he were settling in an open casket.

"I've been having the same dream again." Absorbed in thought, Fox studied the deteriorating handiwork of the ceiling. "But it's been different lately. It's almost as if she doesn't want to see me anymore. Like she's ashamed of me."

A languid voice muffled out from the corner of the poorly-lit room. "The notorious, reoccurring garden dream again. Maybe it's not meant to have a literal interpretation. Perhaps your mind is creating imagery as a subconscious cry to return to innocence."

Innocence. Fox loathed that word. It sounds foreign to him. Nebulous. "I don't see it like that. My mom is trying to show me something. She always does. At least, she used too."

"For argument's sake, let's say your dream is truly divination or a sign. Then perhaps the reason why your mother has stopped acknowledging your presence is that she's encouraging independence. That maybe she wants you to move on with your life."

"There's a point to all this if you would let me finish." Fox masked his irritation as best he could, straining his voice. "Aren't you shrinks supposed to, well, listen?"

"I've been doing more than just listening," the voice admonished him with a hint of vexation. "I've been documenting the same train of thought you've been presenting for months now, but you always dodge the issue. If I were to let you continue, we would never make sufficient progress."

Fox couldn't blame him. There were only so many times they could talk about the same topic over and over again. This dead horse was more than just beaten: it was practically picked barren by ravenous scavengers. Conceding, Fox resumed his focus back to the ceiling.

"If that's the case, she sure picked a shit time for me to forget." Fox dangled an arm off the chair, pointing to a colorful bouquet waiting by the door. "Why do you think I have these anyway? Today is her birthday, after all."

"So the flowers weren't for me, I take it?" A poor attempt at humor. It was most likely a joke, but the voice was so naturally droll that even a stab at a higher octave all sounded the same.

"Well, gee, doctor. Any flowers I would give would pale in comparison to your natural jubilance."

Slouched in an armchair, a bespectacled aged mastiff huffed away, incessantly tapping a pen upon his notepad. His attention was divided between aiming daggers at the young man's lax use of sarcasm and the plodding, ticking hands of a grandfather clock. Every time the mastiff spoke, his sagging skin flapped with it. With the meager lighting of a desk lamp, a grim visage looked back to Fox, almost as if the skin was slipping off his skull. Fox figured that the shrink's speech was so monotone, perhaps he was putting his face to sleep out of boredom.

The resident psychiatrist of the gentrified quarter of Cornerian City, Doctor Lachman, was equally recognized for his high-profile celebrity clients as well as his lack of patience. Perhaps at the start of his illustrious career, he had been a different man. But time and cynicism eroded his compassion as immense ocean tides pummel a rocky cliffside.

Doctor? Fox laughed to himself. A resident couch professor was more like it. Trapped in scratchy, elbow-patched tweed and muddled, breath fogged glasses. Those same glasses failed to cover his bloodshot eyes, serving only to magnify the bursting veins that struggled to uphold the weight falling upon his eyelids.

"Let's change the subject." Lachman appeared perturbed, almost as if he could read Fox's thoughts. "Last time we spoke, I advised you to minimize your taxing workload. I feel like I already know the answer to this question, but have you considered what I said and made any changes?"

"I did consider it, and I chose not to. I simply can't afford to do so."

"Are you in some sort of financial trouble?" The pen in the shrink's hands endlessly grated away.

Fox grimaced. "No, I meant more along the lines of moral currency. I've been working non-stop since the war. Venom is as literal as the name gets. That trash-filled, poison of a planet has still affected Lylat in so many ways. Insurgent forces ambushing our supply chains, along with our outposts and colonies, constantly at risk of a raid. I can't rest until Corneria is truly safe."

"Since the war? That's been a good five years. You're young, Mr. McCloud, but that's no excuse not to watch your health."

"I'll take a break when I can. It's just that staying busy is good for me. Idle hands are the devil's workshop - however, that saying goes." Fox laughed his nerves out like hiccups.

"Spare me those ancient proverbs. You sound older than me right now." Dr. Lachman flipped a page on his clipboard. "You only have your youth once a lifetime, Mr. McCloud. You're a hero, after all. Can't do much of protecting the galaxy if you're dead tired."

"Forget that hero business." Fox stuck out his tongue, repulsed by that word. "There's little heroics involved in mercenary work."

"How have you been sleeping lately?"

"Like a hummingbird hopped up on caffeine, and god knows what else. I haven't been sleeping lately. Not enough hours in the day."

"You're that busy that you can't manage at least a full night's rest?"

Fox played with his fingers. He did not respond. The grandfather clock's pendulum swayed about. The scratching of the pen became increasingly louder. Booming.

"Why do you feel as if you have to accept every request that comes your way?"

Fox's ears twitched. "Because it's my job. I have so many counting on me to pull through. The war may be over, but the battle hasn't ended."

"What would happen if you refuse?"

"Then everything would fall apart." Indignation escaped Fox as he rushed through his words. "And it would be all my fault. I would never hear the end of it. Of how the great Fox McCloud failed to protect the people."

Dr. Lachman snorted - although Fox was not sure if it was a laugh or a cough. "You say all of this, and yet I've heard differently. You keep accepting jobs, but you don't always follow through."

"Huh?" Fox's body stiffened straight as a wooden board. He rubbed his arms, an attempt to loosen his form so he could sit up.

The mastiff pulled out a tablet from his desk drawer. Arthritic, shaking hands struggled to work the device. "Let's see here. I have a report of contracts from the Cornerian Military, all directed to the Star Fox team. I will read you a few of the highlights."

Fox's mouth dropped as he pointed to the tablet. "T-those should be classified! Where did you even-"

"Case five. Fox McCloud failed to appear at the Flight Academy's graduation ceremony, dishonoring the tradition of the Star Fox's team formation flying to greet the graduates to their future careers as military officers."

"I was sick that day!" The pilot's voice squeaked out with a nasal pitch. "How can I fly with a massive migraine? That's a flying hazard!"

"Case nine. Star Fox team was AWOL in their agreed support of a joint assault on a smuggler facility erected on Fichina. While no allied casualties were reported, the bulldog squadron took unnecessary risks in planning an impromptu plan of attack and had to withdraw."

That same squeaky pitch was now a crescendo of a shrill. "Oh please, I didn't agree to that. I just said I might if I got around to it."

"Case fourteen. Only two members of Star Fox appeared to cull the lone Venom group appearing near Katina. Due to the lack of manpower, the hackers managed to escape with crucial information that threatens to damage planet-wide security."

Fox's voice settled. His arms folded, yielding. "Alright. I did mess up that contract. Forgot to set my alarm clock."

The tablet in Dr. Lachman's hands fell to the table with a loud clank. The mastiff took off his glasses as his sunken eyes sifted over Fox. His voice was suddenly punitive and firm. "Does a part of you want to fail? To see what that may be like? To let failure be tangible?"

"Of course not!" Fox was quick to cut him off. And then, accusatorily: "How do you even know about any of this anyway?"

Lachman brought a pen to his cheek as if to jog a pleasant memory. "Who was it? Oh yes. The colonel called. Colonel Hare."

Fox managed a pathetic muted huff, only loud enough to ensure the shrink heard him. "Figures he had to butt in. Everyone's business is his business. Can never leave himself out of anything."

"Speaking of which, you haven't mentioned Peppy since you first started coming here. Is there something going on between the two of you? I get the impression that there is."

"He's-" Fox felt his jaw lock up.

For a moment, Fox swore the hare had swapped places with the doctor. Peppy rested his hands upon his face. His unruly white mustache weaved from in-between his fingers. Once extended, firm ears now bushed and wilted. And he looked directly at the young pilot with a stony expression and glossy eyes. As if all the excuses Fox contrived could never chisel away at the sturdy wall built between them over the past few years.

Fox could bear the reproachful head shakes and wagging fingers. Every visible swallow before speaking and drawn out sigh after the young man's rebuttals. He could even withstand Peppy's infamous hour-long lectures about his declining performance and listing of his faults, while locked in his room away from the rest of the team. But Peppy had played all his cards and was left with bare hands and blanket stares. Now the two only spoke out of necessity during a mission or for business.

And when they did cross paths from happenstance down the Great Fox halls, the air was anxiously rigid. Hands in his pockets, Peppy would shuffle past him, only a low grunt or nod in acknowledgment. The silence suffocated Fox, now incapable of muttering the two words that could eradicate all the tension between the two, but pride clamped his muzzle shut. There was one thing that Fox could not bear any longer: that look of eternal disappointment and dismay. Fox had let Peppy down.

The vision evaporated from Fox's mind. He turned to look out the window. "He's been…busy. Haven't seen him in a while."

Dr. Lachman opened his mouth to speak, but the grandfather clock chimed a grand symphony of rippling reverberations that shook the room. Eight times, precisely.

A hint of relief seeped from the mastiff's tired voice. "I'll have to stop you there, Mr. McCloud. Your appointment ended two hours ago. If it wasn't for your overtime that was putting my grandkids through college, I would have asked you earlier to schedule for another day."

The relief was equally shared with Fox as well. "That's what I like about you. Your sincerity is truly aspirational."

"Watch it. I'm already charging you overtime. I could be charging for blatant disrespect."

Fox stood up, stretching and cracking his neck. "And I could be demanding the same as a discount. Besides, I'm too lazy to find another shrink who will abide by my non-disclosure agreement. Or maybe it's because you don't mind too much if I snap back. Anyone else would have kicked me to the curb months ago."

He picked up the bouquet he had left by the door. "Honest question, doc. Have you considered retirement?"

The mastiff took off his glasses and rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes with index and thumb. "I'm considering taking a long sabbatical after this."

Fox fidgeted with the door handle. Dawdling with his coat for the third time over, he then faintly spoke. "Do you think sabbaticals exist for heroes?"

"If they do, then I strongly encourage you to consider one as well. However, before you leave…" The mastiff did not look up as he wrote upon a small notepad. Then, he beckoned Fox with the pull of a single, condescending finger. A freshly torn piece of paper was handed off in Fox's direction. "Your renewed prescription. Don't forget to fill it this time. The pharmacy said you failed to acquire it last month."

"Must have slipped my mind." Fox approached to snatch the paper, tucking it away in his flight jacket. He then gave it a quick shake, a muffled rattling escaping from one of its many pockets. "Thankfully, I still have the last batch."

"That should have been finished by now. You need to take your dosage more seriously. It's either that or-"

"As I said, slipped my mind. I'll handle it." With his back turned, Fox offered a single wave of his hand, letting the door behind him shut close with a slam.

Fox carried the bundle of flowers with hesitation, like cradling a newborn child for the first time, unsure of how to hold it and eager to pass off to another. He ran his hand among the bouquet's stems—Love-in-a-mist, snapdragons, larkspur, and plumbago. Evenly cut at the base, colors chromatically arranged by hue, with a silk ribbon to wrap every sentiment and apology in place.

Stepping out into the city streets, Fox tightened his red scarf as the frigid, autumn night air bit and grasped his fur. The veil around his neck flickered and snapped crimson about like a raised standard steadfast against the fervent wind.

There was no genuine refuge within Corneria City. Even the stillness of dusk did little to ease the commotion of the skyways. Hovercrafts dazzled from the streets to the buildings at multi-level elevations. Liberal amounts of flora enwreathed intersections and walkways, seemingly blending harmoniously with the technological marvel. From Fox's perspective, he traced the lights emitted from the skyscrapers, sprinkled about as if attempting to scale the walls, and climbing to the very clouds out of view.

The city had implicit rules of etiquette: Auto-pilot, forward trajectory. Tunnel vision to your destination. Numb yourself to the needs of others, for the burdens of the mass are just that: a burden that belongs to no one else but the intended. To look away from your destination is folly. To forego your ambition to aid another would be a cardinal sin.

And should misfortune fall upon a citizen, surely it was their negligence that caused it. No matter if struck with a debilitating sickness, bedridden and unable to support their families. A wrong turn, having ventured too far within the unsavory belly of the city, only to be robbed at gunpoint, stranded. Or the beggars that littered alleyways under hovels of torn tarp and debris, not even a single credit to their name.

Yet these victims were still enveloped upon the very same lights that illuminate the city. All one would need to do is look. A simple swivel of the head would acknowledge their existence. They were nothing but phantasms now, cursed to surmise why no one could hear their cries. Forever to ponder how loneliness can exist when thousands walked among them.

The city labeled the forgotten. A blight, they have been told they are. Obstructions to efficiency towards the city's plan of preaching its pure doctrine. Its inhabitants must become cogs in the clockwork hell of the corporate conglomerate that is Corneria. True fulfillment is only achieved through grueling drudgery.

The city failed to identify the source of the blight. Like the pollution that jutted exhaust fumes at the ignition from every spacecraft, or the endless smoky pyres of industrial factories. The sickness contaminated the clouds with an ashen grey, permeating all around its perimeter. It was breathed in, soaked in, and slept in. And its name was apathy.

In his simple makeshift disguise of trench coat and cap, Fox McCloud sauntered onward with ease in every step, blending shoulder to shoulder with the few that traveled by foot. His existence within the city was an anomaly - an exception to the rule. There would be no peace or salvation for him here on the streets, as he could never remain undetected for long.

The inhabitants could smell his wariness. Watching him from afar with keen interest and constant surveillance, his every action scrutinized. For it was not every day that a hero walks among the mundane. If found, all it would take was one in the crowd to summon a stampede. All gawked at with utensils of camera and phone, supping upon his presence. He would avoid such a scene at all costs.

For now, he was not Fox McCloud. Just another soul drifted along in the night, reveling in the rarity of the moment. For as long as he remained without an identity, no one could harm him or control him. To be forgotten - a face without a name. Wading into waters of momentary oblivion, then sinking into obscurity. To another, such isolation might drive one mad. To Fox McCloud, it was a luxury he would never take for granted.

Nothing could prepare Fox for the life of a hero. Despite years of grooming and training, and the haunting reminders of the inevitable inheritance of the family title and career. He simply let life carry him onwards towards the cemented, golden path that had been paved for him long before his birth. What he did not expect was the baggage that came with it. Nor did he expect the emptiness.

But that was precisely what the war had left him with. Sure, there was the joy of knowing that his efforts had saved millions throughout the Lylat System. But the pleasure he felt now was a fragment of what it once was, nothing more than a fleeting feeling. Now, reluctance guided his actions, all while whispering latent failure and doom pending from around untracked corners.

Headlines and tabloids equally revered and criticized him, always toeing the middle of admiration and resentment. Fox knew that fame would never cease to bring him both. If only he would keep his vow of refusing to read the news on the extranet. After the war, he would scour the articles and video postings for any mention of his name or crew - just to understand their interpretation. To discover why his sacrifice would ever warrant contempt from the public.

He logged every criticism deep within the confines of his mind.

_'If Star Fox ended the war faster - there could have been fewer casualties. Why couldn't they get to Venom quicker?'_

_'Where was Star Fox when my planet was attacked? How could you only save Corneria City when hundreds of towns and cities need your protection too?'_

_'Mercenaries only care about money. All that mattered was that fat check at the end of the day. Our society is sick if we revere people like this. No morality. No loyalty. Once our pockets are emptied, he will abandon us.'_

His curiosity was a beast of demands, and satisfaction would not be an easy task. The need panged him like an itch under the skin, where not even a good scratch could indulge him. While the rest of his crew slept, Fox embarked on many late-night ventures, masked by the pale lighting of his computer. Perhaps it was never a curiosity. It was an obsession.

As he finally laid his head against his bed at night, Fox would plead in silent prayer. If he had the means to negotiate with whatever higher power strummed the galaxy along to live another life, he would do so. He could walk on the other side of the road and watch another -perhaps someone more worthy -take the reins of his legacy, free of responsibility and the weight of the galaxy upon his shoulders. The grass was simply not just greener on the other side: It would be a real paradise.

Fox arrived at the private parking facility where his Arwing was docked. The top floor was exposed to the night sky, lit only by the mild, blinking neon lights of the city around him. In the distance, a holographic billboard glowed an even brighter light that caught his attention. A familiar jingle began to blast, and Fox rubbed his forehead to ward off his imminent headache.

"To be a Cornerian means to stay alert, be proactive, and give it your best shot! As Fox McCloud, leader of Star Fox, I always have to be on my G-game. So when I need to keep the planet safe, I power up with a G-Force Energy!"

After a coy wink and a galvanizing smile, the Fox on the billboard chugged the drink and wiped his muzzle, giving a hyperbolic thumbs up to the camera. Cartoon-sized Arwings flew through hoops and rings of color to dispense miniature G-Force beverages to the city below. A pool party emerged with Fox at the center, surrounded by voluptuous women who posed in their G-Force branded bikinis. Utterly bizarre, utterly nonsensical, but gratingly memorable.

"You don't need an Arwing like mine to go at light speed! G-Force Energy, the one G-Force that won't knock you out!"

Fox mouthed the words in tandem with exaggerated expressions. He did not bother to stay to finish his performance. As Fox jumped in his Arwing, his hands stalled over the ignition. He recalled the screens of moving text, the frustrated director demanding take after take, unconvinced by Fox's performance. Fox did as he was told, smiling while that sour, toxic carbonation they called a refreshment coated his tongue.

"Amp up the charm," the director had told him. "Your father had no problem with any endorsement deals. James would have gotten this on the first take."

Relatability was what sold. It was business, at the end of the day—even the ones with the signed contracts. The royalties could not placate Fox's regret.

To Fox, a friendly gesture and smile were worn like articles of clothing, suited just for the occasion and discarded at the end of the day. Just a pleasantry and appeasement. His charm and witty one-liners were studied behavior, observed, and noted like a student at a lecture. However, it was merely an emulation. The body can act, the mind can memorize, but the soul itself cannot be replicated. The director knew this. The extras and workers behind the scenes knew it too, but it was something left unsaid.

The billboard was nothing more than a shoddy mirror. The man there wore his face and mimicked his voice, but within those eyes, something was lost. A haze was floating in green, staring into space - soulless. Fox wished he could forget him, whomever this stranger was that dared to present such a pathetic form to the world. He did not know that person like the public did.

So Fox, as he did with most things in his life, walked away.

*PING*

Fox blinked twice.

*PING* *PING*

He pulled the cuffs of his jacket back, pressing the button on his watch. It emitted an interactive projected screen before him, with various buttons and applications ready to plug away. An AI's voice chimed in.

"Three new messages from contact Fallo Maserati. You have twenty-two messages unread." The computer recited. "Would you like to respond?"

Fox's finger hovered over the notification sign and wavered. Even without the falcon standing before him, Fox visualized the bird's trademarked patronizing flick of his eyes, the underhanded compliments, and huffs of discontent. Only the thought of yet another standoff suppressed Fox's urge to snap back. There was no point. Nothing would please his most recent copilot.

Falco Lombardi exuded talent as much as he did arrogance, though his ego mostly tipped the scale from tolerable to annoyance. Fox gave clemency on occasion, for he knew that Falco's heart was in the right place. The falcon had always been dependable. No goal or task was ever too much or turned down. Thoroughly criticized perhaps, but never refused.

However, Falco was unaccustomed to being anything but a rebel, and his rehearsed concern often felt invasive and disingenuous. If only Falco knew what username Fox had given him. For Fox's safety, Falco would never hear of it.

Fox sighed. He could not put off a response any longer. "Start from this afternoon."

* * *

  
F Maserati: glad to see you left your room finally ;)

Fox MC: I got tired of smelling myself, so I figured I'd get some air.

F Maserati: gross :P

F Maserati: anywho

F Maserati: Slip been making a fucking racket over installing the new shield upgrades since last night. who can sleep with that noise?

Fox MC: I will never understand how he has the energy for his all-nighters.

F Maserati: I have to admit, the ballistics tests to our shield upgrades have bodied so far. these things can take a punch like no other. however! I was told that fancy pants McCloud had his installed first, hmm? why did mine have to be installed in the middle of the night????

F Maserati: where r u anyway?

Fox MC: Just out for a bit. I'll be back later.

F Maserati: take your meds this time ;O?

Fox MC: Yes, Mrs. Lombardi. Thanks for remembering.

F Maserati: someone has too :U

F Maserati: BTW - pep called last night - couldn't get a hold of you. he wants to know if you're gonna visit your folks today. if so, let him know so he'll stop bugging me. u know how that old fart gets.

F Maserati: listen - I know the air has been bricked between the two of you since last year, but one of u needs to just let it go. this tension has been giving Slip and me the bad vibes and hibbie jibbies. I don't roll like that.

F Maserati: but seriously though, when r u coming back? u know we got that contract in Sector Y to handle next week? more looters harvesting the ship parts from the war, and Lord Salt N' Pepper wants them out. I was fine handling the last one my own, but next time I want more of the cut. u feel me?

F Maserati: annnnnd Slip was looking over my shoulder and reminded me that we almost forgot to pay the fuel bill. should have known those massive frog eyes of his could see my screen even from where I'm sitting. the account is in your name, so pay up when you get the chance.

F Maserati: dude, can we not have a repeat of what happened the last 64 times? you're either locked away in your room or just vanish without a note or heads up? if you're going to ghost again, just put me on and let me have the word, okay?

F Maserati: zen.

* * *

Fox turned off his computer. He could simply text Peppy that he was on his way now to visit - but he didn't feel like talking. Not just yet. He would tell them eventually. Peppy deserved to know the truth of the troubles that ailed him. They all did.

The past knocking on his door in the Great Fox finally dissipated yesterday. While grating, Fox missed its noise. The reassuring tapping to check on his presence kept him alert to the present, even if Fox had refused to acknowledge it by opening the door.

It had to have been Slippy who initiated this. Falco would have banged on the door much harder. But Falco had stopped coming by to check on Fox entirely, he too remained sequestered in his quarters - or disappearing altogether.

At least Slippy had been with him. He was a constant in Fox's life - a crutch he sorely needed. The young toad had a mind beset with urgency and stimulation, navigating life through books, computers, and nerves. When Fox had been down, Slippy's bubbly and incessant font of energy would perk him up immediately. If Slippy faced a bad day, Fox reassured him with a pat on the back and a promise that things would inevitably work out.

The two had been an odd pair. One was the heir to a heroic title and fortune. The other the eternal best friend who spent as much time on his research as he did tripping upon invisible snags in the road. However, genius had a tendency to surface in unexpected forms, and few could rival Slippy's knowledge of the many engineering fields. The toad did not mind the inevitable comparisons of being the clumsy, bumbling sidekick. Slippy knew his own worth.

Little did people know that it was Fox who concealed his jealousy. Slippy could fumble without repercussion. He could emote without admonishment, while Fox's lineage and duty forbade him to do so. If Slippy made a mistake, it was expected. If Fox made one, even something incredibly innocuous, it made the tabloids. So when Slippy cried or laughed from being unable to contain his own emotions, despite being a member of Star Fox, Fox allowed it. Someone had to when he could not.

To be the guardian and advisor. That was Fox's role for Slippy. To have it now reversed irked Fox more than he was ever willing to admit. And out of everyone, letting Slippy down hurt Fox the most.

"Time to head home." Fox revved up the ignition and pulled the thrusters handles forward.

"Let's get this over with."

On the outskirts of Corneria City, Fox flew along velvety black clouds shaped like funnels. Each ball of weather morphed and surged as if they were draining the light out of the sky. The sun barely peaked above the horizon, holding its head up for as long as it could before succumbing to the impending tarp of the darkness of night. Fox's hands firmly gripped upon the controls, listening to the transmission of a podcast on low volume.

Here in the seat of his Arwing, a transformation took place. Instinct gripped upon Fox's shoulders and guided his hands, converting his nervous energy into adrenaline. His mind melded in sync with the movements of the Arwing. Fox could perceive the entirety of the Arwing's hull and sense its field of gravity and mass. The vessel of metal that contained him served as an extension to his own body.

And machine and man would become one. Their desires shared yearning for the thrill of every dip of altitude and the rush of a booster charge. Fox's mind submerged into soothing tranquility, focusing only on the white noise of the engine and the craft's cadenced vibrations upon his seat. To be settled within the sky or swimming in the deep sea of space never failed to free him of the chains of responsibility.

Except for now. Fox had not returned to his family home since he began classes at the academy. As he neared his house, he could not shake the anxiety embedded in the back of his mind. The closer he came to his destination, the more the pain throbbed and split like a migraine.

A red sensor lit up on his control panel, noting a weather advisory that would yield a vision hazard. Fox looked to the woodlands below him, all blanketed by a giant fog, encroaching upon its surroundings as it writhed and expanded outward. The mist condensed in a substantial area as if the clouds had anchored themselves to the ground. Even with the low visibility, the Arwing indicated the landing point at Fox's home and slowly made its descent.

The hatch of the Arwing's cockpit opened, and the damp chill of the fog began to seep through his fur. Fox shivered from his fingers to his toes. It was the same freeze of every unwanted drill at the crack of dawn at the academy. Running miles up and downhill, Fox had struggled to shake off drowsy yawns and the longing of his warm cocoon of sheets and pillows. Or the rime of ice that would form upon the tip of his nose, sniffling back an imminent cold while waiting to be picked up after a practice event.

Fox much preferred the fervor of summer. The cold never failed to bring back memories - wanted and unwanted alike. Every reminiscence brought only loneliness with it. Looping videos repeatedly played of people that Fox had once cherished and held dear. No longer able to be touched with outstretched hands or kept in a secure embrace, they were destined to only live on in his mind.

At least it was easier to be lonely on his own than in front of other people - especially his crew. But here at the steps of his childhood home was a prison of memories. Recollections of days buried were now consequently unearthed and exposed before him.

Large in scale, the McCloud Manor was painted with subdued warm grays, earthy browns, and fitted with humble stone. It had been content in its modesty and allowed the mountains and forest, who had so graciously offered its land, to speak for itself. Privacy was an essential factor behind his family home's location - even if it had been fitted on the scalp of a mountainside at the city's edge.

The manor's very existence was cognitive dissonance—a pristine monument, untouched by the bustle and turmoil of the city that rested at its feet. An apostate of the modern advancements of Cornerian technology, having rejected all the perks of ornate comforts in exchange for rustic restraint.

At initial glance, that is how it appeared. However, the agrarian décor was simply a façade upon the surface. Inside, the home had unparalleled, state-of-the-art comforts. Each piece of furniture or appliance was cleverly disguised to serve the McCloud's desire of an illusion for a quaint, simpler time.

It held a content family once. Bare feet pounded down these stairs and roamed these halls. Stories regaled with laughter in the dining room as the family piano played on, its songs let loose from the window cracks. Lastly, the heartening scents of his favorite breakfast from the kitchen, honey oats with fresh berries swimming in the cold freshness of whole milk.

Now Fox stood alone in the front yard. The wind gently jostled the branches of the trees. The grass crunched underneath his shoes. Insects hummed out tunes as if their legs were a bow to a violin.

It was still. Standing. Stirring.

Contentment. Fox remembered this feeling. Yet he struggled to bring forth the emotion, like a candle waiting for a single spark to ignite the memory, but it never came. Fox knew it was once within him. Perhaps, like his father used to say, if you love something and let it go, it's bound to return to you. Someday.

Fox stopped at the door. There was no point in entering. He knew the house was in the same condition as he left it - all just before the war. His childhood bedroom - his sanctuary - crept into his mind.

The white oak table his mother had made for his drawings, stained with battle wounds of pastel and watercolor paint after Fox had his way with it. While he drew, the television blared a marathon of cartoons, a gateway of secondhand youth to the outside world. In the corner of the room, an endless game of unorthodox chess waged where the rules were made up as he went along. Action figures and dolls replaced royalty, the rest by green toy soldiers. Somehow, the outcome of every match always ended in his favor.

Lastly, a cluster of dried, white sage hung from the ceiling—all to keep the ghosts at bay - of course. Fox did not care if other people found it superstitious, for he was confident the manor was haunted.

He would never dare to venture beyond the safety of his room to his parents' bedroom. For whenever his father had entered, he locked himself away hours and hours on end within his miseries. He was curled up on the bed, smothering his late wife's pillow within his arms, sobbing profusely into a pool of his tears. And his cries veiled his vision, failing to show that his son stood behind the crack at the door - watching his very own hero crumble before his eyes.

Yet, as soon as Fox's father left his bedroom, the air was different. James walked out with his adorned sunglasses, showcasing a wink and a smile, perhaps with an offer to finally head out to the city to catch dinner that was not prepared by the house AI.

James had pretended that nothing happened at all. So Fox learned to do the same.

Walking to his mother's garden, Fox noticed how the gate creaked with betrayal. Wild growth had consumed the garden's contents as sapped weeds sprawled and entangled the once pristine gates. In desolate chaos, the plants bided their time, awaiting the affection they were accustomed to. All this time, the forest had watched in spiteful silence. As if out of reprisal, its thorny vines now breached the earth to claim the land once more.

Fox repeatedly jammed the button to increase the flashlight functionality from his watch computer. He kicked the dirt, swearing. Even the maximum setting barely pierced the fog's thickness, for the heart of the mist had arisen.

The fog had a body. A swelled mass of weather that pulsed and crept as if it were breathing, alive, and aware. Fog and night congealed together. It floated and hung in the tree branches like thick cobwebs, carrying the odor of stale water and rotting vegetation. Here at the altar behind the manor, entrapped behind steel gates, his family had been awaiting him.

They called him. They were inciting his every movement, encouraging a long overdue reunion.

Like a tide being pulled back to sea, Fox felt his steps sink into the ground and dragged beyond the steel gates. Unsure of where his feet were landing, he wielded his wrist's light like a lit torch, the bouquet in his hands trailing a floral perfume in the damp air. Fox's feet finally glided against the smooth stone marble on the ground. A triumphant altar stood before him. He took a moment to gather his thoughts with a deep breath, then spoke out loud the etched readings on the two tombstones before him.

"Here lies Vixy McCloud. Her beauty is widely seen yet unspoken, but all heard her love."

Turning to the next tombstone, Fox's mouth went dry before speaking.

"Here lies James McCloud. Forever to be wings that could rise without wind."

He sat on the cold floor, nestling his chin upon a closed fist. "Happy birthday, Mom. I wish I had some good news to share, but there is something I have to tell you both."

"I don't-" The words caught in his throat like a lump. "I don't think this is working out. I've been trying hard to stick with it. To be the leader of Star Fox. I know it doesn't seem like I am, but I have been. I promise."

Fox's words felt too voluminous amid the haze that hovered in the woods, yet his call spurred no reply. The gold casting of his father's statue revealed its first signs of wear behind scattered dust and dirt—blemishes upon a once spotless immaculate frame, in desperate need of polishing. Yet James's mannerisms were accurately captured even in metallurgy. A high chin with shoulders back. Chest thrust out and standing as tall as his posture would allow.

And the very same smile, forever petrified in time.

"Have you two ever been so sick that you start to think that you'll never get better? Or that no matter how long or often you sleep, you never feel awake? I'm just tired all the time and tired of waking up and still living with this feeling that I've done something so terrible - maybe a lot of things, really - and that it might never stop. I figured that if I just waited long enough, it would disappear. Boy, was that fucking stupid."

Fox closed his eyes, and his voice was sullen. "If I ever walk away from Star Fox, you two wouldn't hate me, right?" His ears twitched as if awaiting a response. "Not that I would! Just speaking in hypotheticals here. Besides, I meant to give you these."

Fox leaned forward to place the bouquet in his hands to its appropriate destination. But he stopped. The pot had already been filled.

A single red rose laid and stood upright. Fox was positive he saw no other vehicles or ships at the manor's landing pad. It may have been Peppy if he had stopped by recently, but Peppy was often close-fisted when it came to gift giving - even for family. However, the rose was fresh. Thorns left ripe and glistening, reflecting the little light that managed to pierce through the fog.

Fox turned to assess his immediate surroundings. There was nothing to be seen, thanks to the fog's thickness. He raised his ears to listen, but Fox could not decipher anything - save the sounds of his breath. Fox choked back a gulp, thinking out to anyone nearby, but was scared to reveal his location.

Inching towards the gate on his tiptoes, Fox retraced his steps to the entrance, until-

"Why are you in such a hurry, Fox McCloud? I merely left a token of my admiration. No need to be so on edge."

A tall, feline man with golden eyes that beamed amidst the darkness stepped forth from the fog. Dark fur sleek like delicate gossamer, velvety and groomed to perfection, juxtaposed by a single, white scar running down his face. His voice rumbling, yet sultry, as if he were talking through a constant purr. With another single rose in his hand, he gallantly strode forward, a stance that suggested one who has lived the pomp and circumstance of indulgent affluence. A man that exuded excellence and expected nothing less.

For all the extravagance in his attire, there is something off about the feline. The glint in the man's eye, his ears prompt and perked forward, a single claw unsheathed. All predatory subtleties that Fox could not ignore. He immediately put up his guard.

"I was told that if you walk with a quick pace, people tend to leave you alone." Fox reached for his blaster holster and drew his weapon, his finger dangled over the safety. "Besides, this is my home. Trespassers aren't welcome."

The man took notice of Fox's weapon but continued strutting forward, smiling. "Mis disculpas. I'm afraid I'm a bit too nosy for my own good. I just had to pay my respects in person and honor a great hero's unfortunate passing. The best ones always leave us too soon." The man wiped away a nonexistent tear, an expression of mock regret that failed to tame a faint smile.

"If you wanted to pay respects to my father, then do so at the memorial in the city. You know, like people who don't lurk in the shadows like a freak."

"I didn't mention your padre, did I?!" The feline snapped, the sudden aggression caused Fox to step back. The man then coughed and dusted off his shoulders, regaining his composure. "As you can see, we've been waiting for you, Mr. McCloud. Tracking your movements. We knew you'd be coming here eventually."

"Who is we, exactly?" Fox said, his heels attempting to plant themselves into marble.

"The men who have this perimeter surrounded." Laughing, the feline then cocked a single fang from his muzzle. "As for me? Panther Caroso, ace pilot extraordinaire. But for today? Professional transporter. I have orders to take you in. You'll be meeting my boss shortly, as reunions are done far better in person."

"I suppose I won't be able to take a rain check?"

"Not likely."

Panther snapped his fingers. Suddenly, light poured from the sky, artificial and blinding, a spotlight honed on Fox's position. The wind picked up rapidly all around him, pushing and pulling his fur. Above him, Fox could barely make out the shape of a massive transport cruiser that obfuscated the sky, slowly unveiling itself from a cloaking device like a snake shedding its skin.

"And don't worry about your Arwing - we'll be sure to take it along for the ride." Panther pointed to Fox. "Now, we just need you."

Fox turned rapidly to every source of new sound and movement. Bushes rustled and twigs cracked from every direction. Within moments, a score of hooded men appeared, armed to the teeth. Their blasters were drawn at the ready, each one fixed with laser scopes that weaved a web of crimson spears on Fox's body.

Fourteen men. No. Perhaps twenty. Would be even more onboard the ship. Fox watched their movements. These were no ordinary criminals, far too practiced with their formations and with remarkable precision. Each one was steady, unwavering. Sleek but weathered leather coats adorned their figures. Their uniforms underneath had no identifiable pattern, as if they were haphazardly put together. They whispered to one another, voices indecipherable as they were drowned out by the transporter's engine.

"Pick your battles, Fox," he whispered to himself, clearly outnumbered. The lack of vision placed him at a considerable disadvantage. A successful escape felt like an impossibility. Fox's gun immediately weighed heavier in his hands, urging to be dropped. Raising both arms in surrender, Fox still loosely maintained the grip upon his weapon.

"Well, that was easy. I was told you'd put up a fight." Panther stepped forward, shoving away one man who did not move from his trajectory. Within seconds, one of the hooded figures pried the gun from Fox. "Fine by me. I'd rather this be done as quickly as possible. I've got a schedule to maintain, after all."

"Hey, that's a custom model, you know. That ain't cheap." Fox's eyes darted around to the men surrounding him, trying his best to determine their intent as he continued to hold his arms high. "Can you at least fill me in about where I'm going?"

Panther sneered, twirling his whiskers with a finger. "You've been personally invited to a… celebration, if you will. It's a bit overdue, and my boss did not want to put it off any longer. Consider yourself the guest of honor."

"A party, huh? I hate _parties_." Fox spat the words out. "Your boss must not exactly be the most popular guy in Lylat if he has to force his guests to attend."

Panther blinked twice, almost as if silently considering what Fox had said. "Come. I'm at least giving you the decency to walk aboard our ship without chains. Try anything, and I might have to reconsider."

The feline looked at his watch, feet tapping the marble with impatience. The charm that Panther had once exuded faded away into a surly frown. Panther then motioned to the men directly behind Fox, who started prodding his back with the barrels of their guns, moving him towards the transporter's location. Suddenly, one significant blow struck Fox's knees from behind, and he felt his weight give out.

"I'm going, I'm going!" Fox reeled in pain, hopping on one leg as the barrels continued to dig into his legs and spine, urging him deeper within the heart of the woods.

Fallen twigs cracked like sharp bones underneath the horde of feet. The men lumbered along behind Panther, who practically charged ahead with an occasional slink around an unsuspecting low branch from the trees. A buzzing noise flattened with a smack of a hand to Panther's neck. He writhed in disgust, muttering profanities under his breath, but not before wiping the remains of the insect onto one of his men's shoulders.

Panther's air of regality felt entirely out of place with the coarseness of the thugs around him. Something about his threatening presence suggested he was experienced and meant business - mostly of the unsavory kind. Fox assumed Panther could have most likely carried out this escort alone if he had wanted. The entourage of men here was chosen for their compliance with taking commands, not necessarily for their skill. Or perhaps such an act was below his paygrade. Panther was simply here to ensure no one else messed up.

They came upon an opening in the brush of the forest. The giant transporter landed to the ground, crushing the undergrowth under its durable steel frame.

A tingling dread pumped through Fox's veins. His mind raced with the possibilities of where he was being taken. Perhaps this was his last day alive. A minute longer and it would consume him, hurtling him to the point of no return. Fox was familiar with that place. When he arrived, he was lost within the tortures of his mind. It could take days to escape and return to normalcy. Fox could - would - not let this happen. Not in front of anyone - let alone these people.

The rattle of the bottle within his jacket suddenly rang out. Fox reached inside to take it out. As he did, the gun of every man trained back on him.

"Espera. What is that? I thought you idiots patted him down!" Panther dashed forward and snatched the bottle from Fox's hands. The feline read the label over. Shock stretched his golden eyes full momentarily, then gave a censorious glare to Fox, as if to assess the label's legitimacy. Panther turned around, shaking the bottle about. He then pocketed it away, but not before extending a fist to the young pilot's direction.

Warily stepping forward, Fox opened his palms to receive two pills.

"The recommended dosage." Panther said. "Can't afford to let you overdose before we get there. The boss would have my head."

Fox managed a slight huff through his nose. "My doctor warned me about not taking these. Didn't realize he would send the freaking mafia just to get me to."

"Enough with your jests!" Panther snarled and stomped his foot. "Don't you realize the shit you're in? How are you able to joke and smile like this?!"

The pills in Fox's hands tickled his palms. Its blue outer layers had already begun to melt and mixed onto the sweat in his hands. He then swallowed both. In moments, his blood thinned slightly, a rush of emotions flurried into light-headiness, only to fade into dull warmth. Every unwanted feeling, just like with the rest of his problems, fizzled down back within him. Contained, but not displaced.

The scratch of a record player began in his head. His father's mantra spoke out loud and clear.

_We're positive, we endure, and we smile through the worst of it._

Fox's eyelids wilted as he looked upon the ship's stretched out stairs before him. His posture slumped, and with ponderous footsteps, he hauled himself on board. The mask of a smile gradually threaded upon his face - sown through the dimples of his cheeks - all tightly set in place. These men did not know the fear that plagued him from within. That was only his secret to know.

Fox shrugged. The smile never left his face.

"I guess I've had a lot of practice."

* * *

Next Chapter: **The Man Born from Obsidian**


	3. The Man Born from Obsidian

It laid in wait - a colossal space station, nestled in a dense minefield of asteroids and remnants of a battle-torn planet. A cube of lustrous obsidian, floating in space with walls of dark alloy. Vermilion and amber coronas gleamed along its sleek edges. Tiny apertures of hangars opened to the swarms of ship cruisers, like worker bees returning their harvest to the hive.

Fox's advent bore no flourish. No knells or sirens. As if his arrival was expected for years to come. Unseen forces had set this arrangement in motion. A mighty current that seemed futile to struggle against. 

Whether this place was prison or haven, Fox could not determine. He had lived through many life-threatening crises before in the war. An upcoming defining milestone that offered experience and grueling hardship in exchange for his virtue and benevolence - should he survive and rise to its challenge.

But what else did he have left to offer that the war had not already pilfered? Perhaps he had a second chance to escape unscathed, squared away deep within his pockets. But maybe second chances were too dubious for this occasion. He was going to need to pull out a miracle.

A single spire at the station's apex glowed crimson as the ship drove closer to the dock. Fox was unable to shake the crawl along his spine as if he were somehow being watched from its lofty height. A secret awaited there. One that was never meant to be uncovered was now found - and could no longer be denied.

He could have sworn he heard convulsions of laughter.

* * *

"Hold it! Just where exactly are you going with that?" Panther made his way to a group of men who were unloading sealed crates off another ship. With a bitter frown, he scrutinized the detailing over the markings of the containers. "These are the energy cells for our cannons, are they not?"

A hyena in Panther's line of fire blinked in a daze as the other men scattered away. "Uh. Well, um, you see-" he mumbled out of a lopsided grin that was preoccupied with smacking gums on a wad of chewing tobacco. Fretfully, he scratched at the flakey, missing patches of fur from mange on his temples. "I was told to haul these over to the boroughs in Low. The quartermaster is collecting them for sale, yeah?"

"No, the crates from the other ship go to the LowSector. They have the scrap!" Panther clenched his lower jaw hard. "To the armory at MidSector with you. This shipment is going to our reserves and won't be for redistribution."

Saliva dripped from the hyena's now slack-jawed muzzle. "Redistri-what now?"

The veins in Panther's neck protruded in silent rage. Steam practically rose from his forehead. "You still enjoy the use of your limbs, do you not? Get yourself and your crew headed the other way, or I'll send my colleague to deal with all of you!"

"R-right away, sir!" With a spry leap into the air, the hyena joined the scurrying of bodies as the flow of men suddenly shifted in reverse.

"And you." Panther turned with rancor to Fox, who had been watching with reluctant merriment at seeing his captor so flustered. "You are to follow me. My boss is waiting for you and we're a bit behind schedule. Don't get sidetracked, or else you too will have a meeting with my colleague once my boss is done with you."

"Message heard loud and clear." Fox gave a sardonic salute with a single hand, almost fanning the tension received right back to its donor. He slogged along behind the feline, the smell of oil and gasoline pervading the air.

The hangar they arrived in was animated. At least a hundred workers sprinted up and down the revolving metal stairs, each handing off crates to one another in a smooth assembly line. The open dome was multiple stories high, carrying along the noise of deafening repair drills and the hiss of air pressure pumps. An entire fleet of spacecrafts slumbered here, their engines winding down in tune with the flickering lights overhead. Fox had not remembered the last time he had seen so many ships in one place: even the Cornerian hangars on base didn't dare to store this many.

Fox fought off a shiver or two from the mysterious cold in the air - despite the rush of bodies and the heat of welding beams of mechanics sealing off damaged hulls. He was stripped of the security of his trench coat, scarf, and cap, along with his computer device, the only means of external communication. Even with his uniform, the cold felt like his body was exposed, naked to roving eyes of this foreign territory. The fur on the back of his neck stood up and prickled like spines on a porcupine's hide. Fox yanked his zipper as far it could upward, dipping his chin in the collar.

A couple of crates that were left unattended caught Fox's attention. Each had been forcibly opened, marks of crowbars on its sides. Inside, a few contained an odd medley of various guns and bayonets, others contained bags of fine powders, liquids, and syringes. He swallowed, darting his gaze away. A life sentence of narcotics in just one small box was enough to get his heart racing. On the bottom of one crate, dark red pooled in its corners - most likely blood. Fox could almost taste the copper.

He winced. "Maybe it's just me, but I'm getting the impression that whatever is going on here isn't particularly legal."

"Aren't you insightful." Panther said, snout high in the air. "My organization offers many different services and talents: Acquisition. Transportation. Security. Escorting important cargo - alive or otherwise." He then sneered behind his shoulders toward Fox. "We're free traders. Independent merchants. Merely in the business of procurement and bartering of goods with capabilities in enforcement. We just don't bother with specifics."

"And all these people are on board for this?"

Panther laughed like he was coughing up every bit of arrogance within him. "For a bone, any dog will dance."

As the pair walked along, dozens of armed guards skulked about with churlish eyes and pinched mouths. Assault rifles in hands, side pistols, and flash grenades were secured to their belt, along with a keen dagger strapped to their leg. Each one sealed off every feasible exit as they passed by, all glowering at Fox as if he had the stupidity to fight them. 

"So you're pirates."

"You don't listen very well, do you?" The feline resumed his usual contemptuous, blithe tone. " _Pirates_ sound so… unsophisticated and tactless. I prefer 'self-employed mercenaries'."

Fox rolled his eyes back to the whites. "So, you're pirates who also happen to be shitty liars."

"Ugh. Another inquisitive one, always asking needless questions and never satisfied with the answers you've been given." Panther heaved out his disgust as though he'd stepped on an insect. "When you come upon a coin on the sidewalk, is it illegal to pocket it? Or does your moral compass demand you fling it back to the ground?"

"Am I to assume your grunts here happened to find all of this cargo just lying around for the taking?" 

"But of course they found it. The former owners won't be needing it anymore. Better for it to be in our hands than to go to waste."

"They won't be needing much of anything now that your crew had something to with it."

Panther smiled. "I read once that minimalism was the key to happiness."

Examining the finery and detailing of Panther's suit, Fox attempted to bite his tongue. Perfectly tailored, high thread count (most likely hand-stitched) with a silk handkerchief tucked away in his chest pocket. His captor's watch, earrings, and cufflinks glimmered with pure gold. Among the dirty uniforms and torn garments of the workers, Panther stuck out like an outrageously priced eyesore. The feline walked with a slightly more pompous bounce now that he had returned to base as if he was weighing the prospect of acquiring more precious metals upon a mental scale.

Giggling, Fox's attempt failed. "Minimalism? If that's the case, you should be the unhappiest person alive."

"Hmph." Flogging his tail with hostility, Panther adjusted said cufflinks, muttering in his unfamiliar tongue under his breath.

Just perfect. Pirates. And not just your typical, ne'er-do-well, run-of-the-mill pirates that could be taken down by a flick of a finger by Fox's team: this group felt structured and militarized - practically keeping a small armada of fighter planes just right in this very hangar. A multitude of scenarios played out in Fox's head by keeping their excellent company. Were they planning to ransom him off for exorbitant amounts of money? Or willing to extort his well-being and safety to Corneria to trade for something more devious?

The bloody crate and the armed men came forth in Fox's mind. Those weapons they had on display weren't just for show. This group could be involved in even more insidious crimes, like the trafficking of Cornerian civilians and settlers, or raiding entire settlements and hijacking fleets. Even worse, organ harvesting had been on the rise. Fox felt his mouth and tongue go as dry as sandpaper. His belly rumbled in sympathetic pain, and his lower back pinched with irritation. Maybe they could have a kidney - just one - if they were pleasant enough and promised not to take anything else.

A memory of smog and sulfur itched within Fox's nose. Of eternal thunderstorms and torrential acid rain that washed over an uninhabited, rocky landscape. He could hear Peppy's voice through the intercom, directing the team across the expansive sea of bubbling yellow waters that would melt to the bone any unfortunate soul who'd slipped and sunk. Or the geysers and craters that were boils upon the plagued land, regurgitating white filth and poisons that stretched and thickened like lava. 

Fox's expression hardened with unease as he rolled his shoulders back. This fortress reeked of Venom's practices.

Half the workers around were primarily reptiles and primates, but the other half was a diverse melting pot of species. If this indeed was Venomian territory, perhaps the workers were servants - maybe even slaves - forced to labor and rebuild. Or the pirates were hired like mercenaries, their efforts directly funded by Venom to serve as an auxiliary detachment to their forces while they reorganized for a countermeasure. Venom could have been more lenient to those who had joined their ranks to recover their numbers from the war. They would be foolish to turn down any assistance after their forces suffered such an overwhelming defeat.

Something else was at play here, and Fox needed to know what parties were involved.

"So, Panther? What is your boss like? Any hints?" Fox said as he followed along, mentally taking notes of every detail he could see, hoping that the next crate wasn't filled with hearts or lungs.

That elicited a purr of a laugh from Panther. "Taxing. The boss wrings out our every bit of loyalty only to then demand total submission. Trust is not so easily earned. But after running the gambit and leaping over hurdles to gain his favor? He's still a mystery. With him, what you see isn't necessarily what you get, if that makes sense. Honestly, I should be asking you the same question. You two have history."

"We do? If so, I can't imagine it's good history. Hm." Fox sucked air into his cheeks, pursing his mouth. Had he known such a person before? Someone with the influence and power to command potentially thousands of men under them? The cogs continued to crank inside Fox's mind, but the rising thoughts of a potential answer wandered away. "I feel like I would remember if someone owned a massive place like this. Doesn't put the 'S' in subtle."

Panther clicked his tongue several times in disappointment. A firm tsk-tsk. "Don't let the boss know that you've forgotten. Besides, people change. A lot can happen in five years."

"Change, huh?" Whispering and scratching the back of his neck, Fox lowered his chin. "Do people change, or does everything else around them?"

The two entered an elevator at the end of the hangar. Panther inputted several commands at the interface, causing the floor to jut and steer a sharp sideways turn. Extending his arms, Fox staggered about, uttering a soft blessing for not losing his balance. Meanwhile, Panther managed a sleepy yawn, examining unsheathed claws without a hitch, as if his shoes had been glued to the floor.

The elevator was littered with indents, scratch marks, and burn marks from blaster fire as if a great battle had taken place here. Faded images and symbols on the walls deliberately washed out, appearing like prehistoric drawings made with rudimentary chalk. 

Fox could not make out what the images were meant to be in its original form. This was a puzzle with the majority of the pieces missing. He felt as if he knew this image once before. But a new symbol had covered the extent of the older image - fresh in its paint. A silver spear impaled the arc of a dark grey crescent moon, cracks of red emitting from its puncture wound as if the moon were flesh.

"Tacky." A thought Fox never intended to say out loud. He tugged at his collar and coughed—a somewhat phony bluff to mask his word. 

Panther sighed. "A piece of advice, McCloud: I would reign in your clumsy attempts at humor if I were you. The boss has little time for impudence. If you've got any sense of class or professionalism, now is the time to show it."

He then turned to place a considerate hand on Fox's shoulder. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Huh?"

Pain. Gut-wrenching. 

A precise punch from a gloved fist right to Fox's solar plexus. Fox keeled to the floor, every molecule of air suddenly fleeing his lungs. He wheezed in desperate, haggard breaths, heaving out like rusted worn out machines. A rush of bile rose up within him, coating and burning his esophagus. 

"That's for being a sarcastic little _shit_." Panther shook out his wrist, adjusting his watch. "Remember this while you writhe on the floor: You're weak. Weaker than you'll ever admit. I've got more important things to do than play babysitter to some spoiled war hero."

Fox rubbed his neck like his throat was a clogged drain. "N-noted. Don't …be me. Got it." He offered a weak, conciliatory thumbs up.

The door to the elevator now opened. Panther walked out with his hands to his hips. "Quit your prattling and get out of the elevator! Or do I have to throw you out myself?!"

As Fox picked himself off the floor, legs wobbling, his mouth dropped. The two men had arrived in an industrial-sized room with a considerable gathering of uniformed men, all circled around a command table. The same symbol of moon and spear was prominently adorned as an emblem on each of their collars. They prattled and chattered on until a single finger pointed at Fox's direction.

And then another. And another. The whole room of at least hundreds of criminals had fixated upon him. War-torn and battled-scarred faces, harshly lit from numerous spotlights grilling down. Malice and hostility stifled the room so that even the ventilator fans slicing overhead were thwarted to purify the air.

Breathing through his nose, a whimper of an exhale left through Fox's mouth. "Fuck my entire life."

Among a bevy of already odd characters, an even more eccentric figure caught Fox's attention. A lithe chameleon stood erect, clad in a skin-tight leather bodysuit strapped limb to limb with various bladed armaments. The metal heels of his stilettos sang as they hit the floor, the song rising above the chatter of voices.

Gliding as if the floor had frozen over, the sleek figure danced with elongated arms and legs - even managing a skillful pirouette - twirling and frolicking about with such shameless abandon as if no one else were in the room. 

The pirates remained stone-faced and unperturbed. As if the dancer had been nothing more than an apparition, lone on stage amidst his celebrations.

Confused, Fox wondered if he were the only one who could see him. Or perhaps the men were used to such an erratic display. Or they kept their gazes ahead to avoid confronting this pure insanity. As Fox watched the chameleon dance, he realized that the chameleon was speaking out loud - muttering - but he was unsure what was said or to whom he was talking. His eyes consumed Fox's attention, engaged in constant motion, unblinking.

There was something hypnotic - almost soothing - about the movement of the chameleon's eyes. As Fox continued to watch, his body felt as if he had descended into a drawn, warm bath with its water rising above his head. And he floated without fear of drowning - hearing just the rhythm of his stabilized heartbeat. All the unease and anxiety fleeted and fizzled out from his hands and feet, leaving only the want - or need - to remain within the peace and tranquility of the chameleon's mesmerizing gaze. 

Adrift in the almost unnatural presence, Fox was unaware that time blurred the images of the men around him, decelerating to a startling halt. The warm temperature had now plummeted to an icy chill, awakening him from his delusion. Fox's scalp prickled with faint static. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something is wrong.

The pirates vanished from sight. The walls melted into concrete slippage and then let forth a mouth of monstrous darkness, which engulfed Fox's form. The once-pleasant humidity became suffocatingly foul as if he'd been brought to a battlefield full of rotting dead. 

Fox stumbled to get his footing in the darkness, his vision clouded by the very light that he was abruptly robbed of - all faded spots of golden green.

His knees buckled under the compounding pressure as if he had been submerged deep underwater. As he struggled to stand, he noticed that there was still one lone figure in the distance, dancing upon the sole source of phosphorescence at their feet.

He was alone with the mad, dancing reptile.

"It seems we've caught a fox, haven't we?"

Within his right ear, noise akin to radio static scratched the inside of his eardrum, causing it to pop with a flare of pain. Like adjustments to an antiquated television antenna, the chaotic noise dissipated after several acute rises in volume. Now the chameleon's every word was audible and clear. Fox swallowed, dry comprehension trickling down his throat. The man was never talking to the people around him - the man had been talking to him.

Then, time rushed forward. The chameleon abruptly stood before him. The reptile's once rapidly moving eyes now gazed steadily upon him, but unfocused, as if he had been analyzing a sight or sound Fox was unable to register. 

"Nocturnal." The chameleon's voice slithered and chilled along Fox's neck, then crawled its way into his ears like multiple appendages from a skittering spider. "Sheltered under the moonlight. Running from possibilities and consequences alike. His heart pounds as his feet take flight. His instincts goad him to flee, but he does not know the bounty that waits before him."

Fox winced as his ears thumped and burned from the sudden impact of heat. Then gentle, warm scaled hands cupped his face.

"Still your heart. There is no shame in being caught. All will be set right." The voice was soft, yet resonated with weight. "It is not cowardice to turn back from a dead-end or refuse to rebuild a fallen, ramshackle home. Your perception of failure is merely a single frame to the lens of truth. Another looking in might view your journey, even with the stumbles, as a success. We only truly fail if we let the flow of fate drift us along, never gaining the foresight to stand and walk on our own in its shallow depths."

"Who are you?" Fox managed a faint gasp as his eyes darted all around the face before him.

"Who I am matters not. The question is: Who are you? I know the longing you feel. The pain you have buried deep within you for so many years. The desperation for guidance on which path your life must take. But all will be set right. For now, you are right where you need to be here in these walls, in this obsidian fortress. You're so very close to the answers you seek."

A stinging sensation bit Fox's skin. Underneath the chameleon's grasp, he realized that the heat emanating from the man's hands had been a deceptive, unnatural cold. A single finger lifted Fox's chin to guide him upward.

"Can you not see him from a distance? Can you not feel him calling out to you? To hear his unremitting howling for absolution throughout the galaxy? Beyond this room, down these halls, through that door - he is coming for you."

Fox attempted to struggle from the chameleon's grasp, but his face was firmly still locked within the scaled hands. "What are you talking about? Who are you talking about? I-"

The chameleon's form disappeared as memories from the war overtook Fox's mind in quick successions, like stills from a projector. Waves of grey and specks of void-like black now emerged as vivid images. He was strapped tight into the seat of his Arwing. Seatbelt fastened like a compact straitjacket. The Arwing was mid-flight, barrel-rolling across the battlefield in Venomian controlled space, barrages of gunfire, and ear-splitting explosions.

Bolse. The last line of defense in enemy territory. Fused with incredible nuclear energy and mighty force fields. A squadron of four popped up open on his combat monitor. All painted in black and red. Their faces emerged to the screen.

Andrew Oikonny. An insufferable, spoiled primate who was unable to restrain their tongue from getting the last jibe in.

Pigma Dengar. The traitorous swine whose greed outweighed his morality and loyalty.

Leon Powalski. The assassin who affectionately hurled threats of wanton violence as a suitor would woo their beloved.

"Leon?" Fox faintly gasped as his pupils dilated, connecting the image to the visage that once stood before him. "If you're here, then-"

And next to Leon, another channel phased in. A fanged, menacing smile that dripped with rough vitriol. A figure brimming with such raw hatred that it seared through Fox's mind, nearly burning the memory out altogether.

The eternal rival. He who bore his fangs at fate. The one who sought to tame life itself.

It was _him_. 

"It's time."

The sound of a door slamming open took Fox by surprise. His vision turned pitch black. His Arwing's systems had shut down. Then his body heaved backward with such force as if his Arwing made a full-frontal collision, flying out of his aircraft and plummeting into the void. Free-falling downward at a violent velocity, Fox screamed with every bit of his being as terror erupted through him.

A bottomless pit of pining laid heavily in his mind and heart. His body was aching. Something precious had been lost in the fall. He opened his eyes, staring in disbelief at sight before him. A tether of light trailed behind him, streaming a glorious shine that pushed back the darkness. The length unfolded as far as his eyes could see, coiled onto what he believed were the last fragments of his very soul.

Fox grunted through clenched teeth as he struggled to adjust his body mid-fall. A shell of fire from his back shielded his body like a soaring meteor, quickening his descent. His hands grappled at the tether, pulling the luminous rope downward with such desperation that every handful felt like wading through quicksand - empty and fruitless.

Tug and pull. Tug and pull. Tug and pull.

His hands blistered red upon the many rough knots that bound the light together. Years of pain and agony had formed malignant tumors, each singeing and shriveling the light's integrity. He just needed to climb upward and reach it. If Fox could simply touch it, he could unite flesh and spirit together, and all would be fine again. Just like the ways things used to be when he was younger. When he was carefree. Happy.

…Happy? Had he been happy once before?

What was that emotion? It had been so long since it had swum and sparked his nerves with its rejuvenating jolt. It was to be heard from his ears, radiate from his skin, and be spoken through his lips. Now all emotions just drifted to the surface, merging and swirling together like the scum of filth-infested waters, arcane and indistinct from one another. Feelings once colored and vibrant as the forest and garden that sheltered his home now appeared muted grey, circling the drain to an unknown destination.

But to feel beyond his basic needs was no longer a privilege he was granted - not even an irrefutable right. How could someone who had taken as many lives as he had deserved to feel anything at all?

No. Fox did not want to wait. He needed to remember what that feeling was. If he was denied it any longer, his nerves might forever shrivel and wither away, never again to feel the weightlessness of joy and the breathlessness of bliss.

Any longer and he could-

* * *

He slammed to the ground. Spasms in his neck. The cold steel burned with impact. Back of the skull. His whole body numbed in a paralyzing halt.

A hitched, harrowing gasp for air awakened him, like breaching the water's surface for a critical handful of precious oxygen. Fox blinked into hazy lights that now became one with the present. He could almost make out the dust falling back down through the air like flakes of snow, scattered by the weight of his body from his fall to the floor.

Picking himself off the floor, Fox felt the heat of the crowd's gaze upon him. He had returned to the room, its walls were sturdy, robust, and untouched. Looking up, Panther held a laugh within his cheeks with a bewildering grin.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost." He studied Fox's waddling stupor as the vulpine rocked back and forth in his stance. Panther's cheeks deflated - reconsidering.

"What the hell just happened?" Fox said, rubbing down his sore tailbone. Dizziness in his brain wired with faint currents of static electricity.

"What just happened was you stared off into space, screamed, and then fell right on your ass." The feline looked away to the crowd, his hands behind his waist. "Kind of embarrassing."

Fox stumbled in front of Panther. His tongue lashed out shaky words, attempting to catch up with his racing mind. "You didn't see what happened? Every single person in this room was just gone! Vanished! And then I was in my Arwing. Reliving the last fight I had with-" His mouth closed shut. Fox looked all over to the dancing figure who had disappeared into the sea of bodies. "Also, where is Leon? I could have sworn he was just here a second ago."

"What are you even talking about? And Leon? Why are you mentioning him?" The feline blinked away his surprise. "Did my little jab knock your memory back together? Besides - he's not here. The creep is away on a mission, though he's supposed to be set to return later today." Shaking his head, Panther looked about as equally confused as the younger man in front of him. "Those pills you gave me, they weren't laced with anything, right?"

"I didn't _give_ you anything. You stole it from me." Fox said with a bit of irritation stirred in. He wanted to give Panther a solid jab back for earlier. "And that's absurd! I'm not tripping out if that's what you're implying." 

"Details, details. Whatever." Panther raised his hand to dismiss the comments. "Back to my point. Does it have any side effects? Poor memory and focus? Upset stomach? Or in your case: hallucinations?"

Bashfully, Fox swung his arms and shuffled his feet. The old doctor might have mentioned something to that effect. He occasionally felt the stifling pull of disassociation before, like he faded to another plane of reality on multiple occasions, but never had he experienced a full-blown out-of-body delusion. The air from the fall still frazzled through his fur. His stomach churned, adjusting itself as if he had tripped off a tall building. However, this felt real. As real as the fixed stare of apprehension on Panther's face.

"Well, um, you see-"

A crude alarm shrieked twice from the second floor of the room. Steam escaped from the crevices of a slowly parting metal door. 

An ominous figure stood within the doorway, the darkness in the hall lit only by a glowing, single spark, slowly simmering to a consistent flame. "Come now," a deep, rustic twang resonated from the door. "I shouldn't have to give a lesson in hospitality, now should I?"

Each thug that had snickered and gawked was swept with immediate silence. Fox's ears perked up at the voice and then immediately slumped. His knees buckled at the sight of the pirate lord himself, dawning on him just what kind of situation he was genuinely caught in.

The sharp steel of his boots clanged against the floor. His leather jacket scuffled with every swing of his mighty arms—the rustle of chains and the prominent eye patch all in view. Cigar in hand, Wolf O'Donnell made his entrance, letting every particle of smoke depress through his nostrils.

"If it isn't the man of the hour, the young scion himself." Wolf leaned on the metal railing before the crowd below him. Eye wide and eyebrows raised, Wolf licked his muzzle. Even among hundreds of men, Wolf effortlessly honed in on Fox's position. "Not every day we have a guest cause quite a ruckus as this."

"Just as you commanded, the real Fox McCloud is here," Panther chimed in, bowing.

In one quick motion, Wolf hurdled over the railing, his feet landing heavily on the level below. He rose without a hitch, grunting. The crowd took notice as they shuffled about, parting a path leading right to Fox. It was apparent that Wolf made the calls here - he was alpha - and no one would dare to question it.

Fox thought such a meeting would be an impossibility. Today had indeed been a day of firsts. Kidnapped, utterly losing his mind - and the first time feeling undisputedly defenseless. 

Wolf was tall - a giant of a man. More daunting in person than behind the Arwing's communications visual monitor. Fox could still see the very same prideful indignation he remembered, all chiseled into the severity of Wolf's features. However, he had not realized just how smooth the smoky tones of his rival's deep voice were - when not masked by transmission interference and gunfire. All propelled by that wicked, silver tongue convincing even the most apprehensive miser to surrender their horde of funds.

Intensity radiated off the pirate's body like oppressive heat. Subtlety was not of Wolf's vernacular. His broad, muscular frame moved about in a confident swagger, growing bolder as if Wolf fed off the submissive energy in the room. Thick, pronounced eyebrows raked his forehead, slicked with perpetual disdain for whoever crossed his path. A sinister smile emerged from the gruff white fur around his muzzle. Fox knew it was directed just for him.

Fox's eyes steadily rose upward as the pirate approached. Backlit, Wolf's massive form loomed and cast a shadow that stretched over the younger pilot. Fox noticed the peculiarity of how Wolf held his cigar. Wedged between long claws, all honed and filed to sheer perfection. It was passing the legal limit for a predator species - if this was in Cornerian territory.

But even more piercing than Wolf's claws was that single red eye, powerful and penetrating, yet opaque of any discernible emotion or intent. A gaze of such might that it burrowed deep into Fox's very core, searching and exhuming every weakness and carefully kept secret alike. The exchange would provide no reciprocation, as Wolf offered nothing but a smokescreen that veiled his true intentions. It broadcasted a single warning: know your place.

The lupine leaned forward, sniffing the air around the younger man, then inspecting him as if he were a lost package. His snout wrinkled in disgust.

"Forgive me, I just had to make sure it was you. Figured you would have been a foot taller." Wolf's chuckles were all bass and rasp that laid deep within his chest. The crowd of pirates soon joined in on his amusement. He then offered an open hand to Fox. "It's a pleasure, McCloud. Been fixin' this day up for years. Nearabout thought you'd never make it to the party."

Fox looked down at the clawed hand, resisting the urge to swat it away. To shake would be the height of stupidity. Inevitably he would have punctured his palm attempting to grasp that hand with spikes for fingers. Instead, he folded his arms, gathering every ounce of courage in his posture to hold his own against Wolf. Despite his efforts, his former enemy towered over him.

"So this is the big bad boss I've heard so much about. You've got a bit of an upgrade since your days of being a lackey," Fox said. The volume in his voice had dropped, unusually quiet. "Anyway, couldn't you have waited a bit longer? I'm not in the mood to socialize. Especially with you."

"A dagger to my heart!" Wolf held his chest, feigning pain. "My men gather here to greet the big ol' hero of the galaxy, and you can't even show a bit of gratitude? Who taught you your manners? Never figured a McCloud to be the disrespectful type."

"Your men might need a lesson in manners. Your tall, dark, and scarred over there punched me right in the gut."

"Did he now? A shame. I wanted first blood." Wolf broke his concentration, turning to Panther with a flash of ire. Panther immediately gulped, his legs looking as if they went wooden. Knees locked and stiff—the first visible crack of fear in the feline's supposed poised demeanor. Fox relished the small victory.

But it was too soon to celebrate. Wolf turned his imposing figure right to him once more. A bead of sweat dripped from Fox's nose, and his intimidation oozed from his pores. Wolf directed his gaze to the sweat that dropped to the floor. Nothing seemed to go past him. Endlessly evaluating and calculating.

The pirate then stood toe-to-toe to Fox as he took a long drag on his cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke over the smaller man. Peering through the smoke, Fox's eyes stung. A single tear dropped and slid to his cheek, yet he never broke eye contact. The ringing of cooling fans and the murmur of voices remained, urging with anticipation for the next move.

"I thought you had enough of tasting your own blood?" Fox called out, holding in several coughs from the smoke. "Didn't want to be caught in your bootleg Arwing so you could get shot down again?"

The crowd of pirates stuttered with a cacophony of gasps and hollers. In Fox's periphery, an incredulous Panther smacked his forehead, shaking his head. Fox gulped a mouthful of regret as he chastised himself over his choice of words. Whistling in response, Wolf's loose, cocky grin curved and twisted into a harrowing smile - a full row of vicious canines and pristine teeth so white that Fox could almost make out a reflection of his own face contorting in horror.

"Oh, that's a good one. You seem to have your father's crackin' wit. Too bad you don't got his good judgment." Wolf teased as he stood even closer with a broad, threatening pose. Fists to his hips, several fangs propped up the cigar, his chest swelling out with animosity.

Fox's nose twitched, almost upon Wolf's chest due to their difference in height. "And what the hell do you know of my father?"

"I know enough." Wolf's smile evaporated into the smoke as he leaned in once more. His face but inches away as he spoke into Fox's ear - voice stark and low. "You might want to take a gander, McCloud. If you haven't noticed, you're kind of fucked."

Fox's fear was only suppressed by his rising anger. "Where am I, exactly?"

"This is my domain. This is Sargasso. And up in here - you're my executive bitch."

"… Sargasso Space Station?”

"Where else would you be? Your military pals have no jurisdiction in this sector. They certainly can try to find you. I wouldn't bet on it, though."

Fox's hands balled into fists - nails digging into his palms - shaking. He cursed up a storm in his head, a pummeling of rebukes that his negligence had led him to the notorious Sargasso Space Station. A floating fortress that was a bastion for criminals and the lawless alike who sought their haven in the galaxy where power and fear reigned supreme. The headquarters of the loose alliance between the various pirate and mercenary groups that resided near Venomian space, all led through masterful coercion and dictatorial diplomacy by Wolf O'Donnell, the de facto leader himself. 

After a meeting over the rise of weapons and narcotics trafficking, Fox had overheard its name from the hushed whispering at the military headquarters. A quick glimpse at the oversight of top-secret dossiers scattered upon Bill's desk detailed the absorption of former pirates groups under its banner. He'd seen the emergency newscast of another hijacking of a Cornerian transporter, delivering supplies to an outpost off-world. Another threat had emerged from the ashes of the Lylat war. One that was swept under the rug by the military forces for the sake of preserving the buds of hope yet to bloom for the citizens of Corneria.

Never once had Fox encountered the pirates of Sargasso themselves, until now. Their movements and activity were primarily elusive to Corneria, who had attempted to keep track of their new enemies, but with little success. The pirates maneuvered space with covert attacks and hit-and-run tactics like the biting precision of a viper's fang, striking and retreating after each successful hunt. There were no patterns to their chosen targets, no official military or government beyond Wolf's crushing fist and ruthless punishments. Though Sargasso's crimes were almost innocuous compared to Venom's extensive list of offenses, it was a perilous precursor for things to come, with true motives yet to be revealed. Second to Venom, this was one of the last places Fox ever wanted to end up.

Star Wolf had become something entirely different from its days as a transparent doppelganger group to Star Fox. How Wolf managed such a feat was beyond Fox. It piqued great, yet tentative curiosity within him.

"Nice place. Very homey and festive. I would have brought my signature sugar cookies with sprinkles for your housewarming party if you gave me a heads up. You know, before you _kidnapped_ me." Fox fought back the stammer in his voice as best he could. "Let's get to the point. You're going to tell me why I'm here?"

Wolf shrugged high in the air and fluttered his eye. "You weren't informed? I'm celebrating the anniversary of Sargasso's construction - and what better way to celebrate than to have my best friend in the entire galaxy present. Can't you just tell I'm practically over the fuckin' moon right now to see you here? I need to be strapped in a saddle because I just wanna kick and buck in excitement," said with a mocking and chastising tone that was practically as sharp as Wolf's fangs and claws.

"Moreover, I wanted to gloat a bit. Let you bask in the glory of all my recent achievements. To show that diligence and hard work are still true and tried virtues. That despite a few snags in the road, you can still pick yourself up and let your name be known."

Fox raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't call your massive bounty of a hundred million credits an achievement."

" _Two_ hundred million." Wolf plastered a knowing, satisfying grin on his face. "I think of it as a high score for an arcade game. Just gotta keep rackin' up the points. I'm afraid I'm somewhat prone to addictive tendencies and vices."

"Good for you. I guess someone needs to hold the title of Most Wanted Criminal in Lylat." A pin of headache started to form in Fox's forehead. "Ok, so, you own Sargasso, and you're a rich and scary pirate king now. Great. Anything else you want to boast about and get another gold star for a while you're at it?"

"There's still one thing I have left to achieve." And all the ridicule and lightness in Wolf's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "But before we get to the main event, allow me to introduce you to my pride and joy. The pirates of Sargasso: The Wolf Pack."

Like a flip of a switch, the once chaotic crowd of hundreds surged with commanding energy, abruptly filing in formation with mechanical, almost machine-like precision. Each one pronounced in an upright stance, and a right closed fist over the chest. Wolf cleared his throat and then performed a drawn-out, strident howl that invoked a surge of disorienting adrenaline of every recipient, vibrating a stable echo throughout the room. And the men followed suit, imitating their leader's howling as best they could in jarring discord.

If the circumstance had been different, Fox would have thought the display to be cringe-inducing or perhaps even a bit comical. Yet nervous laughter escaped him against his will. Like a tight bottle of caged discord popped open, its contents unleashed at the most inopportune time. All Fox could do was swallow and shuffle in place, masquerading his unease as best he could with casual indifference.

"Well. Um. Nice to meet you all? Sorry about my clumsiness earlier. I swear it was a fluke," Fox felt his voice crack as he waved to the crowd. He paused - awaiting any kind of reaction. Every pirate looked ahead with composed rigidness, just like the Cornerian soldiers who marched with vigilance in front of the military headquarters. It wasn't coming. "And now that I've gotten that out of the way - where's the exit?"

Wolf shrugged and then took another hit from his cigar. "Ain't you interested in catchin' up first?"

"I'm interested in _leaving_."

"Sorry. No can do. I know this ain't exactly the accommodations a hero is used to, but I ain't doing nothin' until you learn to show some respect to your host."

"What accommodations, exactly? Did I miss out on the complimentary buffet and hot towel service? Get the valet to bring over my Arwing while you're at it."

Wolf snorted with a menacing gleam in his eye. "I think we have a misunderstanding here. See, I'm allowin' you to stand in front of me. Like I am allowin' you to breathe my air, scamper aboard my territory, even be in my crackerjack of a presence. Most men aren't so lucky to even make it this far - if you catch my drift."

"Right. I'm sure everyone else who ends up here with an 'invitation' is so grateful for your charity, Wolf."

"Love to sass, don't you, boy?" Wolf spoke with a hint of fondness as if pleased to instill such a combative reaction from the younger man. Something Wolf had most likely been craving from the start.

Another reaction. Fox learned that it was possible to scowl and smile at the same time. Every fiber of the lupine's facial muscle was tense, yet effortless to form such an expression. Only the roguish charm that Wolf possessed could pull such a feat off and deem it appropriate. Like a daredevil's unremitting attraction to life and death thrills - Fox was unable to look away.

Lesson learned. Charm can also be intimidating. Perhaps even dangerous.

"I can tell you're hankerin' to fight. Like you want to sock my face with a bag of bricks right about now." Wolf swiftly dropped to Fox's level, getting unnervingly close to his face that Fox could almost feel the lupine's coarseness in his whiskers. "Whatcha gonna do, pretty boy? If you wanna escape, then you gotta earn it. You think you got the balls to fight your way through my men?"

Fox flicked his eyes up with a pointed tone. "If I have to."

"Uh oh, the jig is up! Pack it in - McCloud's gonna get us!" Wolf's laughter was all thunder and bluster - a grim reminder for his men to join in the humiliation. The cackling of the crowd bristled fox's nerves, stunned by his feebleness from the mockery. The younger pilot's teeth ground together, barricading his tongue to lash back another retort. 

Wolf then pointed right to his cheeks. "Come on, tough guy, give 'er a swing. Just pretend that there ain't no one else here. Nothin' but air and opportunities."

Within Wolf's laughter, their eyes met again. The pirate lifted his chin, promptly raising his eyebrows rapidly - taunting. Fox's eyes darted all around, searching for any sign of a bluff to the challenge. There was no deception besides the hubris that rolled over the pirate's body like water dripping on steel. The crowd's eyes demanded action and conflict, yet Fox's fists fell to his sides like heavy weights, crumbling under the pirate's arrogance and averted his gaze to the floor.

Furrowing his brows in disappointment, Wolf put out his cigar and tossed it behind him. "Talkin' a big game before, huh. There's defiance in those eyes of yours. I like that. Let's see how long that will last."

These brutes. These uncivil thugs.

Fox had self-loathing in abundance. Piles of criticism and judgment that lay dormant along with stowed unresolved tensions and broken childhood dreams. If he did it to himself, surely he would be immune to anyone else who dared to consider doing what his depreciation could not. But powerlessness numbed Fox's legs and arms as insults were hurled his way, slinking to his mind, as if to pull the wool over his eyes to the reality before him.

He wanted to run. Curl up on the floor or claw and dig his way through the metal and steel to the comfort of a dark, isolating ditch. Fox wondered if it was physically possible to crawl inside himself and fade out of existence. But Wolf wouldn't have the decency to know about that.

"What's wrong, boy? Don't tell me you're already rattled. You look as if you couldn't find your ass with both hands in your back pockets."

Too late. Fox felt his form be dissected and pulled apart by Wolf's eye with keen precision. Almost like Wolf predicted Fox's swirl of emotions before even the young pilot's internal sensations could create them. Merciless thoughts converged across the pirate's expression like impending hurricane winds, repressing its downpour of tumultuous devastation. A smile formed that at first almost feels genuine, but the thin glowering of his eye and the tension that builds within his jaw and muscles painted a more violent picture.

"Hey, now, I see we're gettin' off on the wrong foot. Let's cool our heels and loosen up a tad. Ain't no need for this macho bullshit, am I right? Since this is our overdue first meeting, why not start on good terms?"

A hearty smack to his back reverberated in Fox's thin frame, instantly causing him to stand upright. Fox was reeled in with one strong arm around his shoulder, stuck and wedged in between a sizeable, jutted bicep. With his free hand, Wolf rummaged through his pockets and produced another cigar, still wrapped in its silver foil. He waggled it in Fox's direction.

"Picked up these beauties from a Cornerian battle cruiser we raided a while ago. The commander on board must have been a real ritzy bastard to have these stashed away. So generous of him to share. Here. Have one on me." Wolf beckoned Panther to come forward with a crick of his neck, which the feline then graciously flipped open a lighter, waiting.

Fox looked directly into the small flame, entranced by its form. "I'm afraid I don't smoke."

"Oh? What was that you said?" Wolf's voice raised a bit higher with a mischievous tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. A bit hard of hearin' with all this gibberish and nonsense."

Fox took a deep breath and channeled all of his patience into an exhale. "I don't want to, thanks."

Still propping the lit flame up, Panther rolled his eyes at Fox. His golden eyes glowered down to the light several times, hinting to the vulpine to just light the cigar.

Wolf grunted. "Now, if I hear you correctly, you're turnin' down a gift? In my fortress? Is the great Fox McCloud truly so hoity-toity to enter another person's home and not partake in the delicacies offered to him?"

"I just don't want-"

"You think you're too good for my cigar, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

The crowd jeered and spat spiteful barbs. Fox could have sworn that the group had moved closer. A tightened noose of men enclosed around him with every refusal.

"Now, now, everyone." Wolf addressed the crowd. "Different strokes for different folks."

Turning back his attention to Fox, Wolf's muzzle pressed right on the tip of Fox's ear, almost rasping it with his teeth. "Since it hasn't sunk in yet, I'll fill you in. Because as long as you're here," his smoky, warm voice clouded Fox's mind, the grip Wolf had on him constricting even further, "what you feel like doin' ain't exactly what you're gonna be doin'."

Fox sighed, taking his present and unfolded the wrapping, finally allowing Panther to light his gracious gift. Wolf motioned to Fox to smell the cigar. The lupine devoured the first trial of smoke with a jaunty inhale, then letting loose a spirited sigh of pleasure, tongue lolling out briefly. Fox complied with a hesitant whiff, then took the first puff, the bold and vibrant tones smoldering his nose and mouth. It wasn't as bad as Fox first thought - rather an acquired taste.

But then his eyes began to water and well up as he coughed the smoke back out. Pain hit his sides like hot irons. His lungs seethed and retaliated, still sore after the sucker punch in the elevator. The smoke was practically a fist punching him from the insides, peeling off the scabs from wounds that were attempting to heal within.

"See? That ain't so bad. Bless yer heart for tryin'." Wolf let Fox loose from his grip and patted down his back as the younger man continued to roll through his coughing fit. The pats were more like firm swats, anything but reassuring. Wolf was almost using the opportunity to smack him harder. "Now that you've accepted my token of goodwill, we'll be the best of friends."

"S-since we're…friends now," Fox gagged, choked down what best he could, "will you finally finish explaining to me why you brought me here?"

"Why? Three reasons." Wolf turned his back towards Fox and strolled away a few steps.

He raised an index finger. "One. I wanted you and me to meet once again. To see what my rival has been up to now. Mr. Famous and too big for his britches."

He paired his middle with his index. "Two. I've been longin' for a rematch. I got my mind right as rain, and my skills ain't never been finer. I assure you, our next battle won't play out the same way as it did in the past."

And next was the ring finger. "And three?"

A rush of wind smacked across Fox's face - blindsiding him. Claws shredded through the collar of his jacket, hoisting his fragile body right to Wolf's level. The pirate snarled in a rampant frenzy, foaming at the mouth like a crazed, rabies-infected animal. He bared his fangs with a low, direful growl.

"Because I despise you, McCloud! I detest you! I ain't a man above petty revenge, and I'll get what I want. I won't ever be satisfied until I know that I've bested you and to see you crushed underneath my boot. This here celebration ain't nothin' but a damn farce. All of my achievements mean nothin' as long as you stand alive. A living reminder of my past failures, wearin' the title of best pilot and merc that I so righteously deserve. But for now? Just to see you suffer is enough."

Limp and dangling like a rag doll, Fox hung in the air, putting in a negligible effort to struggle as his neck sunk lower into his collar. Futility scoured his mind like exhaustion, only capable of a slow, detached blink in response. Just a day ago, he had awoken from his bed to face another monotonous day, walked through the city streets with beautiful flowers in hand - and now this. What had he done to deserve this? At least the monotony was predictable and safe.

"What a waste." Fox said, eyeing his gift fall and sizzled out on the floor. He did not dare look directly at his enemy's face. Something told him to look away, to not invite any more anger towards the man that had his life in their hands. "Listen, I take it that this is a revenge plan for losing a couple of dogfights to me. It is fascinating, but I kind of need to get back to what I was doing, thanks."

"Am I inconveniencin' you?" Wolf said, blowing out a huff of anger that juddered his mouth. His eye bore only resentment. Grip unfaltering. With Fox in his clutch, Wolf called to the crowd, his eye still firmly planted on the young pilot. "What say you, boys? What should I do to our little hero right here?"

The crowd responded with fervor and bloodlust. Like observing a grand gladiatorial fight in an open coliseum, the masses had arms pumped upward, and thumbs yanked downward.

"Kill him!"

"Rip him a new one!"

"Let me have at him, boss!"

"Cut his bloody head off!"

"Take that pussy f----t out!"

Wolf jerked to a freeze, eye blurring its focus as he dropped Fox - who managed to land with ease. "Whoa there." The pirate whistled and turned around. "Which one of y'all said that last one just now?

And every single cry and shout was shut vacuum-tight as Wolf's ire and reproachful glare overtook the crowd in just mere seconds, regret shared on each of their faces.

"I ain't gonna ask again. Step forth. Now!" Wolf shouted with even more anger and rasp than he had when he held Fox in the air. His hackles raised as if he were to attack at any moment.

From within the back of the crowd, a whirlwind of arms quickly rushed a tall, lanky rodent to the forefront. A forceful push nearly toppled the rat over as he looked up to Wolf - his boss, his lord - who stood before him. Fox looked at the accused, a silent sigh of relief that the peril had turned elsewhere. The rat appeared to be no more than a few years younger than Fox himself. His whiskers twitched uncontrollably as his rodent tail coiled upon his right leg - shaking.

"What's your name, son?" Wolf's voice dropped his aggression to a casual tone. A loose stance with his thumbs tucked in his leather pants.

The rat's eyes dampened with tears. "C-Cliff, sir."

"Cliff. Y'know who Fox McCloud is, right?"

"Yes, sir. Leader of the Star Fox team…sir."

"Dandy. Then I shouldn't have to remind you what McCloud is capable of." Wolf gestured to Fox as an auctioneer would to a prized, appraised item. "This right here is the real deal. Truly a one-person army. Both are allied, and enemy pirate organizations constantly fall against his team. Entire Venomian battalions didn't even stand a chance against his skill. I reckon he alone could space hundreds of our men in a dog fight - if given a chance."

Fox winced. No amount of compliments to his skill could take the condemnation out of being branded as a killer. The way the young pirate looked to Fox was no different from how he gaped at Wolf. An expression that was mocking him moments ago had turned into sheer terror. At that moment, Fox felt himself blend with the pirates all around him, comparable to the room's ilk. He could have sworn he could hear every thought in the young man's head, screaming in apologies but unable to mutter them.

"And if my ears ain't foolin' me," Wolf walked circles around the rat like a predator trapping his prey, "you just insulted one of the greatest pilots this galaxy has ever seen."

Cliff's words seeped and chipped through his chattering teeth. "I-I just wanted to join in the f-fun, sir. Like you were d-doing."

"You haven't earned that right. You ain't on our level, boy."

"Yes sir, I just-"

Wolf raised his hand before Cliff's face. "So, if Fox right here is a pussy f----t, as you so eloquently stated, the man that bested me twice before, what does that make me then?"

"Uh. Um. Well. You see-" Cliff's throat bobbed as if he had been submerged in water, gasping for breath. "I don't k-know, I-"

Stopping dead in his tracks, Wolf's red eye narrowed to a fine, thin blade. "Answer. Me."

"You're not that, sir! I would never say that about you! Never!"

" _Bullshit_. Do y' think I'm less than that?" Wolf lowered himself to Cliff's level, voice rigid and threatening, then shoving him backward. "Say that again to my face. I fuckin' dare you."

"I'm sorry, sir!" The rat backpedaled, nearly falling over from the push. He raised his hands defensively - pleading. "I wasn't thinking! I wasn't-"

"Right. You weren't thinkin'. That won't be tolerated." Wolf raised one hand above him.

It happened in a flash. Wolf's arm swung out as if battering open a locked door. A mighty backhand of such swiftness and force thrashed the rat several feet away and into the crowds behind him, knocking over the unfortunate victims like pins to a bowling alley. Fox had no time even to recoil much less process the event. He was left with only stunned silence and the reverberation of the impact that rang amongst the metallic halls.

"Don't disrespect Fox or me. Ever again. Do y' hear me, boy?" Wolf called out and turned back to Fox with a coy smile as if nothing had transpired. "Now, where were we?"

Fox watched as Cliff quickly scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the crowd. "You were, um." He swallowed, forgetting to breathe for a moment—the image of Wolf's mighty swing replaying in his head. "Explaining to me that you had a bone to pick with me…or something to that effect."

"Right. Enough with the foreplay. It's clear that you and I have things to settle."

And the pirate lord let out a mighty sigh, one that persisted for an unnaturally long time as if it had been lodged deep within him for years. A faint moment of stoic repose over his expression, breathing in new air to replace the old, turned to pensive intensity. "Fox McCloud," Wolf's eye locked with his nemesis. "I challenge you to a duel."

"A duel? Excuse me?" Disbelief roused in Fox's body like unsettling waves, almost causing him to flinch. "You want to fight me? Cut the shit. Haven't we already established earlier that you lost twice to me before?"

Wolf loosened the incredible tension in his jaw that wanted to clamp and tear anything in its path. "Trust me, I haven't forgotten. What I want are pure fisticuffs—hand-to-hand combat. A battle royale until only one victor is left standin'. Only then will that determine who is the best in the galaxy."

"You can't be serious." Fox said, but the grim determination in Wolf's eye never ceased. "What are the stakes here?"

"If I win, Star Fox will be disbanded. Permanently. I will determine your legacy from here on out. Your life will be in my hands. And if you win?" Wolf scoffed with skepticism. "You'll earn your freedom. I'll promise to stay out of Cornerian airspace, leave your friends be, and you won't ever see me again. How does that sound?"

In a single moment, the rush and adrenaline of battle solidified over Fox's body, transforming fear into emergent action. His pupils dilated, muscles tightened, and his blood pulsed with renewed essence and resolve. The enemy was before him.

The mask of the warrior spirit was adorned once more. It arose after the first plane fell by his own hands, falling to the ground in a mighty blaze on his planet's soil. Once that sin took root, it would never leave him, a lodged bullet embedded deep in the skin. The reduction of basic evolutionary behavior had resumed control. The need to survive and endure, singular and infinite throughout his mind, like resonating musical notes crooning in unison.

Fox's fingers loosened, erratic twitching as if hands were upon his Arwing's controls. A thumb to initiate the laser cannons. Tapping twice upon the release commands to deploy the smart bombs. That final, direct hit after a skillful somersault upon his enemy's Wolfen, smoldering out the fire of arrogance out of his damned scornful eye altogether.

But there was no ship now. No teammates. It was just him this time. Just his bones. His will.

Fox pushed up his sleeves, calm purpose in his upright neck, and pointed back to the pirate with fervor. "No deal. If I win, I get to decide what to do with you and all of Sargasso. I'll be taking you back to Corneria with me as a prisoner, where you will pay for your crimes and debt to this entire galaxy. An eye for an eye, Wolf."

The line of fire and silent accusations lifted from Fox's back, pulling to the center of the room where Wolf stood. A maelstrom of resolution flowing back directly to the pirate lord himself. The ball was in Wolf's court. 

Wolf blinked. His red eye tingled and twitched. Running a hand through his white hair, Wolf tipped his neck to both sides, a satisfyingly harsh crack from each bend.

And then - a snicker. A snort. Until a roar of laughter lobbed Wolf's head back, transforming into uproarious and boundless bellowing, thrilled by the sheer audacity from the younger man's rebuff. The pirate practically bounced upon the steel-tipped toes of his boots in elation. This man did not just relish danger, he thrived in it.

And that smile of his - that shit-eating grin. As if he possessed all the resilience and conviction in the universe, never deterred by provocation or challenge. And as Wolf's confidence grew, Fox felt his presence plunge as the warrior spirit abandoned him, as if his nemesis' exhilaration was an exorcist purging the few slivers of faith left from within him, leaving him barren and shaken once more.

"Now that's what I am talkin' about! Considering I only have one eye left to give - high stakes it shall be. Fine! I agree to your terms." Wolf said. "Tomorrow it is then."

"Huh?" Fox gulped. "Tomorrow? Are you serious?"

The pirate winked right back - all while maintaining that grin of his. He's dead serious.

"Don't I get at least time to prepare or something? And I haven't even officially agreed to this!" Fox said, wondering if his heart could race even faster than the marathon of terror it was currently running. "Is there a rulebook of how this is going to play out? A point system? You know, what you define as a duel might be completely different from I'm used to and-"

"Panther," Wolf called out. "get your ass over here."

Panther stepped forward, giving a slight bow. "Yes, boss?"

"Take Mr. McCloud to the purgatory ward. He wants time to prepare, right? Let him sit in a cell and think about how he's gonna get his big boy pants on. Maybe sleeping on the hard floor will help center him. Don't want him to get too comfortable before his big day."

And the feline followed suit, snapping his fingers at two adjacent men. Fox felt his elbows pop as the men forced his arms behind his back, shoving him back toward the elevator.

"Stop! Wait!" The pilot's feet shuffled and dragged to the floor like braking tires, impeding being hauled away. "Wolf, let's talk about this more! Do we really need to do this in the first place? What is this going to achieve anyway!?"

"Get whatever sleep you can, boy!" Wolf shouted as Fox was thrown to the ground in the elevator. "Tomorrow, we will get to see if you're truly worthy of your lineage."

Fox rose to place his hands in-between the elevator doors to stop them from closing but was pulled back again. "Wolf! Damn it, listen to me!"

As the doors closed, Fox's body froze when he caught sight of Wolf, glaring right at him. The haunting gaze entrapped him once more. Intertwined by bounded threads, teetering on the edge of life and death. That cursed eye cut through the air, silent and clinical like a surgeon's knife, gouging deeper with no trace of emotion. As if to relay one last message:

_You made a grave mistake. Your weaknesses spilled out upon the floor. Hesitation and uncertainty bled from reopened wounds._

_A stone is sturdy but once unbalanced is destined to be toppled._

_And now your revealed weaknesses will be my weapon._

_My rival._

The doors clanked shut.

* * *

Claws dug at the back of his neck and uniform. With a good heave, Fox was flung into a prison cell like a sack of hefty produce. He managed to catch himself this time - he wasn't going to be falling on his ass twice in one day.

The bars closed with a harsh shut. Fox dusted off his shoulders then fingered the fresh holes in his collar after Wolf had his way with it. He breathed deep - then immediately wished he hadn't. Sweat and mildew perfused the swamp-like air, with inklings of chlorine and bleach from the rough blankets and sheets on the beds. The pitted walls were fixed with dull metal sinks and broken faucets, failing to hold back another splat of a droplet. The recessed light from the ceiling revealed the peeled paint on the cell bars, gripped and brushed away by years from clawing, yanking hands.

Time only existed outside of these bars. Here, the world spun to a halt. Stagnation grew like unsightly boils and sores, festering over.

Fox recalled a couple of late-night conversations over takeout with Falco, who often regaled him (always unprompted) about his few stints in the slammer when he ran with his motorcycle gang. Advice he never thought would ever be applicable up until this point.

One. Find the toughest looking dude you can - and then beat the shit out of him. Prisons work like a pack mentality. People respect power and action, not words or empty promises.

Two. Horde whatever you possibly can. Supplies are few and far between. Plus, you never know what can be turned into a weapon - or when you might need one. A toothbrush, when properly sawed down, can be more than just for your teeth.

Lastly - stick with the liquid soap. You can't drop that.

"F-f-f-f-f…Fox McCloud? What the hell are you doing here?!"

Fox turned to see a rotund red panda squeal out behind the shoddy bed bunk, clutching his hands to his chest to contain his nerves. The man's eyes darted around the room in a panic, futility searching the cell as if a magical door would suddenly appear to escape from.

"Yep. That's me." Fox sighed his snarky attitude through his nose. Figured that he would have to share a small space with someone else. "No autographs, please. Don't have a pen on me - might be mistaken for a shiv."

"What? Why would I even ask you for one of those?" The panic that read across the red panda's features quickly changed to offense. "Well, if you're here, someone will be coming to get you, right?" He looked down, muttering and disgruntled. "Apparently, I am not important to warrant a rescue party. Just wait until the executives hear about this when I get back."

The red panda rambled on with a monologue at such a speed, all the words seemed to be one incoherent sentence. He then stood upright, clapping his stubby hands together. All the irritation from before turned into desperate cheer. "But anyway, surely a rescue squad will come to get you! My prayers have finally been answered! Hell, maybe even the entire Cornerian army will arrive to save me..." His cheeks puffed into a blush. "I-I mean - us - yes, all of us."

Fox reeled back and remained still. In awe from his new acquittance's surreal influx of emotions. "You're unusually… chipper."

"Yeah, yeah. Stow it, you bigshot." The prisoner pursed his lips as his eyebrows drew close together. "You'd be pretty emotional if you'd been here as long as I have! Just you wait - it's going to happen to you as well!"

Mere minutes locked away in a cell, and already Fox was contemplating whether he could tolerate the red panda's smug and smarmy disposition any longer. The man hunched with an uneven stride in a defensive posture, at the ready to clap back, as if every action deserves a reaction. Eyerolls by the dozen, whipping windings of a neck, and a pretentious screeching of a high voice formed the cherry on top of his winning personality. His clothes were baggy and ill-fitting as if he lost a considerable amount of weight since his original date of capture.

Despite his shambling appearance, there was an aura of entitlement wrapped around his words. Arrogance was worn like accessories to his ragged outfit, just as in denial of how crudely it mismatched his otherwise fragile disposition behind his wagging tongue. In the outside world, perhaps the red panda was accustomed to a position of power without opposition - or minimal protest. But here in this cell, he struggled to hold onto whatever aspect of control he could maintain, eternally tormented by reminders of a former life that bore no influence in this pirate hell. 

"Um, hello to you too?" Fox frowned, touching the base of his neck.

"Oh! Introductions? Couldn't resist knowing who I was?" The red panda wrinkled his nose in delight. "My name is Tachibana Panda, but my friends call me Red. That ring a bell? I've done a lot of work for your team."

"Should it?" Fox scratched his forehead as he looked below to Red's outfit. Two letters stood out: SD.

Red looked to the side and back to Fox once more. A tint of exasperation in his movements. "You know, Space Dynamics? The numero uno weapons and defense research engineering group in Corneria. I've helped fulfill plenty of orders for weapon upgrades and ship parts for your Arwings and the Great Fox?"

"Oh. That makes sense. I usually let Slippy handle those details. I'm not one with all the engineering jargon. But thanks anyway?"

"T-thanks anyway?! I - jeez-"

Fox frowned. "I'm sorry, but have we met?"

"Yes!" Red then looked to the floor, shrinking. "I mean - Not personally, no. But I know of you. Everyone does in my department at work because any of your requests and shipments are handled as priority orders. We practically stop everything that we're doing just to send those out."

"I don't." A low voice said. From behind him, Fox could hear the footsteps of another cellmate pacing about the room. "Who is the new meat?"

"Fox McCloud. _The Fox McCloud_." The red panda signaled with his fingers towards the other man who lingered in the shadows. "You know, only the greatest Cornerian pilot of this generation."

"I do not care about Corneria. Too prissy for me to be liking, eh?"

Fox was by no means a particularly tall man; he was even a bit short for his species. The older sable that appeared barely stood at Fox's shoulder level, yet walked the cell with the bravado and gumption of someone at least thrice his height. He gave Fox a good look over, sizing him up, appearing unbothered by another body in an already cramped prison cell. 

"I am to be guessing the young boy must be important. Everyone in this hall is, how do you say it? High priority inmates? Didn't want to group us with the common folk, no?"

The sable was unusually listless and soft-spoken with his speech despite his rough exterior, as if he had been inexperienced with social etiquette or just simply lacked the desire to speak altogether. Fox could not help but stare at every scar that was mapped upon the sable's exposed flesh, some with such depth that fur no longer grew from the wound. The wounds spoke volumes more than his voice, as hundreds of battles had each carved their mark upon him - gunshots to blade wounds, each one a perilous story waiting to be retold. Any normal man would have met their end from such inflictions, yet this prisoner still managed to stand.

However, danger lurked behind the sable's sudden shifting glances, every unspoken word still running through the man's mind. Only a seasoned veteran could display such a calm considering the circumstances of their imprisonment. Fox knew there must be something lurking beneath, waiting. Still waters often run deep.

The sable whispered to Fox through his cupped hands. "Between you and me, I'd rather be in the general population to get away from the nerd." He then nudged Fox with a playful, hard elbow to the pilot's waist.

"Ow." Fox nearly tilted over from the gesture. Bones still sore from his slip and fall. There was some power in his fellow prisoner's small, stocky body.

"Hey!" Red called out. "I can hear you! This isn't the time for jokes."

"I don't tell the jokes; I tell the facts," the sable snickered just as light and evenly-paced as he talked. He then extended his hand to Fox, who winced at the tightness of the mighty grip. "Sobol. My full name will cost you. Nerd might give out information freely, but I offer nothing unless there is a price tag."

"So, how did you get here?" Red asked. "Did you get captured too? After an epic fight in space, most likely. You probably took down a couple before they got you, right?"

Fox scratched behind his ear. "They, uh, more like 'acquired' me from my home. And no, I was overwhelmed with numbers. Can't do much when you have dozens of blasters aimed at you."

"Pfft." Sobol hunched over one of the bed frames. "No excuse. You should have taken one out, at least."

"Speaking of which, I have an opportunity to rectify that." Fox looked down at his open palm, which he then closed into a tight fist. "The head bastard himself summoned me here for a fight, like a sparring match or something. I guess he couldn't handle being a loser for the rest of his life."

Tension flowed through the tiny cell. Both cellmates looked back with pensive bafflement. Fox rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles now stiff. "What? Did I say something weird?"

"Well, it was nice meeting you, er, Fox? And it was nice knowing you too." Sobol shrugged half-heartedly. "Maybe you had a chance at winning with a ship, but fighting with fists with the Босс himself? Sorry, but you winning is likely as lobster whistling on top of the mountain. Shortest stay in Sargasso history you will be known for."

Red drew in an audible intake of breath, appalled. "Listen, you dimwit, this is Fox McCloud we are talking about! He's got that special ops training. That martial arts action!" He then kicked a stumpy leg up that failed to rise above his waist, almost falling over in his attempt.

"And like been telling you before, never hearing of the guy until now." The sable forcibly flicked his chin with his hand in Red's direction. "So, eh, fuck off."

And then there was breathing. Panting. Guttural.

Fox blinked, looking all around, attempting to deduce where the other sound was coming from. There couldn't be another person in this small cell, could it? The sound trailed off across the hall to another cell. Speechlessness forced Fox's mouth open at the sight before him. A gigantic figure swathed in damp bandages was smothered against its cell bars, swaying about like a risen mummy recently exhumed from a tomb. Craggy, irregular breathing escaped a wounded throat, sounding like he had been hooked up to a ventilator.

"Hey, hey, guys?" The bickering duo finally stopped to turn to Fox, who pointed to the cell directly in front of them. "Who exactly is that dude over there?"

A literal behemoth of a komodo monitor was crammed snuggly tight in a cell meant for at least three bodies. Abnormally gigantic - more muscle than flesh. Veins gorged and enlarged, practically at their bursting point. Fox guessed that even both of his arms couldn't reach around that monster of a neck. He coughed a storm of phlegm and bloody mucus, but even the fit of his lungs never disrupted his leer through the narrow and formidable reptilian splits of his eyes.

The reptile was a contender for possibly having more scars than Sobol, but the wounds that the bandages failed to cover seemed more recent. Poorly stitched skin ripped like unlaced shoes flayed open, raw reddish-pink like undercooked meat.

The red panda pointed to the number above the monitor's cell. "S27. That's what we call him. We've never heard his name because he doesn't talk." Red said, then with apprehension- "Well, I should say he doesn't talk _anymore_."

The sable stepped forward next to Fox. "Do you know him? He is usually just sitting and always silently making threats. Sobol has never seen him so… lively."

"Mr. Celebrity here must have a lot of fans. And naysayers." Red laughed.

That last comment elicited a furious reaction from the beast. He pounded at the cell bars, fist after bloody fist bludgeoned away. A maroon-colored barrier flashed and rippled with every punch to the bar, a hidden defense mechanism that kept prisoners at bay. Fox took a step back but slowly went back into position, a sigh of relief that the barrier had managed to contain the raging dragon. Without it, the monitor looked as if he had the strength to bend steel as if it were melted putty.

"Are you sure you don't know him?" Red watched the onslaught of punches, seemingly unbothered. An event that most likely happened frequently. "A bit dubious, at best. You must have a terrible memory. I mean, you didn't even know me of all people."

"I don't, but I am honestly starting to believe I might be going senile." Fox shook his head. "What's wrong with him?" Grimacing at the unsightly wounds, Fox felt vicarious pain running through his arms. "He looks like he fell into a giant serrated blender."

"The torturer took him," Red said with sympathy and equal vexation. 

Fox cocked his neck to the side, wearily staring at the blood congealed on the bandages. "There's a resident torturer onboard this place? Are you for real? What the hell kind of place is Wolf running here?"

Red nodded and closed his eyes, fighting back a choke of tears as if reliving stressful memories. "He plays with his victims, like a demented child would. Beating their stuffed animals like it were inconsequential. Inflicting pain on smaller creatures just to know how they will squirm and die. Surely they can't feel any pain, right? But that's what we are to him. Just toys. Not people. Pray that you never have to meet him."

Sobol split up the two younger men talking. "Yes, yes. Torture people and giant lizardman are scary. Another man scarier than both is Wolf. How do you plan to fight him?" He looked to Fox. "A bit scrawny for this, no? Noodle arms you be having." Sobol pinched and prodded at Fox's arm muscles. A disappointed, vacant blink at their diminutive size. "I am not too confident, McClod."

" _It's McCloud_." Fox mouthed the words with exasperation, wondering why the sable felt the need to be so physical. "And don't let my metabolism fool you, there's some weight behind these fists."

"More than weight is needed to beat Wolf. What else have you?"

"I'm pretty quick. Agile. I was always the top of the pack in track and flexibility. Any weaknesses I should be aware of?"

Sobol and Red looked to one another. Their eyes exchanged many words as if debating who would be the bearer of bad news.

Red rocked back and forth with his hands jittering behind his back, looking to the ceiling. "Well - the thing about that is - I'm not sure he has any."

"That can't possibly be true. How can that one-eyed pirate not have a weakness? I mean, he's got one freaking eye!" Fox looked to Sobol for affirmation, who refused to meet his eyes.

"Why would I lie to you?!" Red shambled about, visibly flustered and sweating. "Trust me! I'm thinking about it, but I can't even come up with one."

Sobol sighed and then motioned for Fox to come down to his level, to which the young pilot kneeled down - ears alert. "If you think Wolf's lack of depth in vision will give an edge, then be thinking again. He fights like a beast. A wild, starving beast, but if somehow having… discipline. Many tricks he is having. Knowing how to study the battlefield better. His smell and hearing are working harder to make up for less... eye."

"This is too serious." Fox's legs prickled with restlessness. His throat was dry. "You both act like this is some kind of duel to the death."

Sobol grabbed both of Fox's arms, shaking the pilot like cracking electrified livewire. The volume of his voice was louder than Fox thought the smaller man capable. "What do you be thinking it be?! A fight after school? A spanking for bad behavior? You need to find balls - and quick - or hero you will be no more after tomorrow!"

Fox shook off the severity of the conversation and backed away from Sobol's grip. "You watched him fight before?"

"You can say that." The sable's dark eyes leered away, breaking contact. 

Red stepped forward. "I-I have. Wolf beat the shit out of a defector, teaching all of us a very harsh lesson not to ever fuck with him or the Wolf Pack. Everyone - and I mean everyone here - was sent to watch the fight, chains and all. Let's just say not to leave your neck exposed. Please."

"Wow." Fox managed to whisper. "Wolf would do something like-"

"Ok, ok! Since you've pressured me, for Lylat's sake, I'll tell you everything!" Red flailed his arms, bouncing out his nervous energy in erratic movements. "Wolf - just went for that poor sucker's jugular - with his very own mouth! Just ghastly amounts of blood like a freaking geyser on Fortuna! And it almost didn't seem to faze Wolf - not even one bit. I've never seen anything so grotesque in my life."

From across the hall, the large monitor managed a peal of hoarse laughter underneath all his bandages, slowly making a biting motion with his fingers before clamping down on his neck. The laughter did not cease.

"Be ignoring him." Sobol snapped his fingers in Fox's direction to get his attention. "S27 always be getting last two credits in."

Fox slumped against the metal wall, slinking downward until he fell. Pulling his legs close and tight, he buried his face in his arms. "I was just going about my day, and…this happens. What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

"Stars, this can't be happening. If he's going to fight Fox, what the hell is he going to do with the rest of us?" The red panda paced about the room in stressful fits, gnawing upon his fingernails. "How long is he going to keep us here!? I just…I just want to go home!"

"Be quiet!" Sobol yelled out. "I say this before, and I say again. Home is everywhere and nowhere. For now, you're stuck here, just like all of us." He turned to Fox and jabbed him again, but to his skull. "Ain't that right, McClad?"

Too tired to flinch or rub the sore spot in pain. Too exhausted to even correct his fellow prisoner. Fox perked up from his pathetic huddle - only his eyes exposed. "Home is where the heart is, right? I'm not sure if I've ever had a home to begin with."

At least he was still alive - for the time being. Tonight could be his last night alive.

Fox reached for the bottle in his jacket, but his mind offered only a conciliatory memory of the rattle of the cap, and an image of Panther's haughty smile as he dug through the empty pockets. His breathing quickened out of pace, gulping down invisible saliva from a parched mouth.

This could not be real. There was no possible way this day had actually occurred. Where was the virtual reality simulator strapped to his forehead? The alarm clock warbling a tantrum and falling off the side table to awaken him from his nightmare? Surely, this was a prank for all his irresponsibility this past year. General Pepper and Wolf would walk out any minute now, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, laughing with one another before surprising Fox that this was all one big, humorless joke.

Perhaps if he closed his eyes, he could feel something else - anything else - beyond the grueling fear of dealing with the duel the next day. But the darkness that consumed Fox's vision only disoriented him further. Blame was an unsheathed blade, stabbed from behind like treacherous betrayal - yet Fox did not resist its plunge into his spine.

Memories of his room at the Great Fox agitated and frothed in his mind. He was compacted by metal, sharing the ship with just two other people. All sealed off in their own respective quarters of the ship, nose to the grindstone of the labor of contracted mercenary life.

Like a fly on the wall. A hidden camera in the corner of the ceiling. Watching himself from afar as his worry and doubt mutated into physical monstrosities, sins roaming around the room, each one demanding justice and retribution.

It offered no resolution. No sanctuary. A small, reclusive cove to be sealed off from the demands and responsibilities of the world. He had become a hermit, content with slumbering in a bed of lies and frustration. Weary with sustaining the weight of his recurring terrors on his shoulders that could never be explained to an audience demanding so much from him in return.

Just like this very prison cell. Perhaps there had been no difference; this cell would be home now.

And Fox was left in silence - until silence spoke back.

* * *

Next Chapter: **Meager**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a moment to thank the wonderful UwUr-sempai for their amazing fanart of this chapter. It really captured the scene where the two meet! I am beyond grateful. 
> 
> https://uwur-sempai.tumblr.com/ Follow them here on Tumblr! 
> 
> Thank you again!


	4. Meager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Descriptive Details of a Panic Attack
> 
> Fanart Submission by uwur-sempai. Follow them here: https://uwur-sempai.tumblr.com/

"Um, excuse me."

Fox twiddled his thumbs. With a corded neck, he lurched over a barricade of paperwork on the secretary's desk. Perhaps he hadn’t spoken loud enough over the clack of the keyboard pattering away or the din of the television playing a newscast.

"Ahem. _Excuse_ me." He tapped his fingers on the top of the desk. "Do you have any updates on when they will be finished? It's been an hour or so."

"Cadet McCloud." The administrative assistant, a sphinx cat, looked up just enough to see the graduation badge on his flight jacket. "I mean, _Second Lieutenant_." A rueful smile lifted only half her face before she retreated to her mound of papers. "As I told you a couple of minutes ago, I don’t know when the General and Mr. Hare will be done with their meeting. Just take a seat and relax."

Fox's eyebrows gathered together. "Could I at least check-in and knock on the door? I'm just worried that something may have happened."

"I'd mind if you don’t take your seat like I suggested." She crossed her arms with a glassy stare. "You interrupt and it's my job on the line."

"I realize that but-"

Her stare now looked as if it could hard boil eggs. "Listen. You may be the heir to Star Fox, but you're a commissioned officer now. Protocol and convention still apply. You can't barge in a general's office simply because you wish."

"Thanks, I guess. Sorry to bother you." Fox instantly regretted his unappreciated apology. More directed towards himself and that he couldn't only keep his mouth shut. Etiquette regulations didn’t apply to civilians like herself; anything beyond a sir or ma'am was a courtesy, but not enforced.

Fox sat back on the leather couch in the waiting room, filling back the indentation he formed after hours of waiting, feet resumed to sketching figure eights into the plush carpets. He didn’t need to replay the last couple of times he dared to disrupt General Pepper's assistant. A leer with a propped up fist held up her downturned, primed lips, as if Fox had the gall to request her to do the essential functions of her job. 

He had an unspoken policy: everyone got one free pass. However, if she should steer that insufferable tone his way again, there would be enough bite in his riposte for both slights.

Fox studied her demeanor while she was safe and secure behind her construction of a fence of documents. Pasty cushions of hairless skin bunched under her eyes, along with the wrinkles of a frown notched in her cheeks like fault lines. It was a face that had seen enough young men and women off to battle, only to be reunited when their names were carved at the academy's memorial wall. Simpler to cast them aside with tart words than having to suffer their grief.

Sighing, Fox was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Father always had said that hasty insinuations and allegations would come back to haunt him one way or another. Keep your expectations in check, and people would do the same in return. Speak with the assumption that you're being recorded. Avoid creating needless slandering evidence if you can help it. He did enjoy rambling on how the media would edit and twist his words.

Fox bowed his spine, embracing his elbows. James would always have his Rolodex of eternal wisdom on the quick draw. Rehearsed advice and idioms from the intrepid hero - mainly when it was uncalled for. In hindsight, it was more apt to say it was a lecture concealed as advice, but the intent was thoughtful and hard to argue its relevance or legitimacy. Tough love was James' go-to. Now, more than ever, Fox wished his dad was still able to give it.

The television at the corner of the ceiling continued to bark away. A mandatory broadcast flashed with red strips of round-the-clock breaking news updates: A Cornerian base burning off-world. Venom's battalion of tanks and battleships steamrolled over it, destroying the outpost to rubble under a stream of lasers and blasts within moments. Andross' troops had extended his will and stretched out like his fingers, extending his grasp to Corneria City's edges. The flames of war will surely reach the shores of Corneria any day now. And should his forces arrive, Corneria's current defenses would be nothing more than microscopic droplets evaporating in its mighty pyre.

The news feed froze and focused upon enemy soldiers garbed in black, immersed in the smoke of pyres of combat. One soldier looked to the camera, staring back with compressed eyes, then lifted a heavy blaster rifle, aiming directly point-blank. A piercing, laser shot fired, and the feed was abruptly cut off. Fox was unsure if this was indeed reality or a glimpse into hell itself.

It took every ounce of Fox's discipline to keep his face aligned and jaw clenched, focusing on anything besides the chaos. How many in his graduating class were now deployed on the front lines, strapped and bunkered down, under fire in combat? Or worse, at that very base being ravaged by Venom's forces?

Just a month ago, his company of cadets had adorned their ceremonial uniforms, crisp and steamed starch ivory-white, with badges of prestige peppered upon their sashes. They each walked across the podium on the academy's grounds, breathing in the last of spring's faint sweetness to the tendrils of summer's warmth. And when they shook Pepper's mighty hand and met his honorable salute, they were no longer children, but soldiers. The future officers and leaders of the Cornerian army, tasked with upholding the importance of its character and dignity, always vigilant in preparation to defend their planet's values in the wake of potential peril.

And the class walked back to their seats, brimming with pride in their accomplishments, along with the sheer disbelief that the past four years of grueling toil and study would at last bear fruit. The concept of battle was intangible or merely a possibility, never dwelling in the forefront of their mind. They were blissfully unaware that their newfound skills would soon be tested. That the consequences for a misguided step or ill-timing would no longer be a failing grade or a reprimand from a superior officer. On the contrary, something more dire, such as missing limbs or returning home in a body bag.

These future soldiers had been constructed, packaged, and shipped off like the millions of manufactured weapons and pharmaceutical products that Corneria was infamous for. A living shield to defend not just the people, but their government and commerce. To wrap and entangle the red tape, soak up the hemorrhaging tax rates, and enforce the constricting regulations and barbarous labor laws. And this product had no warranty to fulfill once fractured or damaged, it was only on to the next able body. To be late was to be left. And to be useless was to be obsolete.

Earlier that day, when walking the campus grounds of the military headquarters, Fox ran his hands over the grooves of a smooth onyx memorial engraved with the recently fallen. With hitched breathing and a trembling chin, his cheeks tingled with heat. He remembered the priest's words at both of his parents' funerals when they ushered in the crowd, commanding them to pay their respects. But here and now, integrity was scarce, frugally spent by every militaristic convention. Fox could only pay in regrets.

At the academy, Fox learned that most of his classmates could be divided into three distinct groups: Those who sought his attention and friendship as stepping stones for self-serving intentions and fame. Those who were in love with the idea of the son of a hero, a fictitious concept in their mind and not necessarily the person standing in front of them. And lastly, those who brandished their contemptuous envy of his name with harsh scowls and limpid gossip whenever they could. 

Nevertheless, there was one name that stood out from the memorial that fell within a unique group. Sandra Akita. So her first name had been Sandra. Shameful that he had spent four years with a regiment of cadets and had never known all their names. 

She had been peculiar. Her inquiring, fixed stare suggested that she was ready to be filed and labeled within one of Fox's notorious groups. Instead, her eyes beamed with a cascade of unanswered questions, neck askew and sore from observing in the sidelines, and speech rendered inarticulate should Fox ever get too close to invading her personal bubble.

Fox believed he committed a social faux pas to justify such a reaction until he discovered a parchment slid upon his dormitory floor, stamped with archaic sensibilities of a wax seal that only a historian could appreciate, and perfumed with cheap, diluted magnolia oil one could afford on a student's salary. Exquisite handwriting translated a desire that her tongue could not. Requesting if the young heir had the time to sit outside the new café that sold fried beignets and rich mocha coffee that scalded as much as it sweetened the mouth. Then afterward, to catch the latest cinema downtown - an action film, of course - or any of his choosing or preference.

The akita's keen intelligence never granted her the foresight to realize her advances would never requite a letter under her own door. Frustration overflowed from Fox over mounting expectations, especially to those that would be impossible to fulfill. Could she not see that his own delicate spirit and fluid emotional receptiveness was far too similar to hers? To be this immovable, unflinching masculine figure was a role too daunting of a task to maintain every hour of the day? Yet how could she have known if he did not have the guts to explain his truth to her, let alone to anyone else?

Bittersweet was all Fox could muster. Perhaps she knew that sheer persistence would never be enough, committed to the rocky journey of young love and infatuated with the fantasy of an idol romance. If contentment cherished an illusion of the authentic soul, then solace served as her only lover. But she deserved reciprocation for her devotion from someone who could dedicate as much as she could sacrifice. In the next life, should there be one, let it be not just be promised, but fulfilled.

War doesn't demand hopes or dreams - just bodies. Flesh and gristle. A scourge of a black hole consisting of hatred and anger. Hunting and consuming all it seized, then once engorged, hibernating until its bloodlust reawakened for more. But war wasn’t a force of nature like the sweeping rush of a tornado or punctures of icy hail. No, it was the product of society's inability to evolve. To become more significant than just skin and bounded minerals instilled with profound emotion and primal instinct. Refusing the sagacity of the staff in exchange to wield the heinous scythe.

For this overwhelming aggression and violence felt righteous and addictive. Partisan to empathy was self-introspection, which required hampering composure, unearthing demons, and self-directed blame. And when you would stop, you would think - floating above emotion, the potential to admit fault and cooperate. But that would require work. Effort. Hate was innate, simple to stew and simple to serve. Therefore, it must be perpetuated. It must be justified at all costs.

Were these cadets really soldiers? Expecting to fight for a world they barely knew? A body of a developing, supposed adult, but the mind and spirit of a guiltless child. Their fleeting existence was glossed over. The years of mothering and nurturing, weaning on milk and sentiment, and given a weapon as soon as their arms could lift it. Life taught them how to raise a gun, pilot a ship, and bleed on its soil. But what of its love or joy? Its passion or mercy?

Instead, they would learn of bullets puncturing their ribcages. Their arteries bursting apart from the flying shrapnel of grenades. A prayer and a cry to loved ones before their spacecraft erupted into a plume of flames in the darkness of space. Buried and sunk into placid dirt graves, their fragile and minuscule world had ended, only knowing the universe's terror and violence. Ignorant to the wonders and fascinations of life from the day they were born to the moment their hearts danced its final swan song, drummed for eighteen years, now at rest - motionless.

No. Perhaps the soldiers knew the truth of the universe better than anyone, of Its unforgiving and cruel, frozen caress. It was survival of the fittest, where only the strong and resilient may seek a century's end. For all life was the universe's offspring- it could not and would not pick favorites. Ignorant to believe that the promises of youth were constants, but the only permanence was that the universe would move on regardless - with or without them. From the dust they had risen, to dust they would return.

Fox knew what it meant to grieve. To ruminate on being left in agonizing loneliness, wobbling upon on his own two feet without the guidance of reassuring hands to catch him if he should fall. His own blistered hands were now responsible for intercepting the coarse cement before the rest of him did. And every stumble and plunge calloused his paws, but whether it was from the endurance of strength or the familiarity of futility that bided his tears, he was unsure. But the pain was still acute and real; his skin bled all the same.

If he had stared any longer at the memorial, he would picture a befuddling illusion, mixing and breaking the names apart letter by letter, revealing a blank space at the far edge. It was waiting for another fallen soldier, but it never needed to wait long. An invisible hand slathered in globs of ink inscribed one last name:

**James McCloud, Jr.**

Terror overwhelmed Fox's vision, quivering into overdrive, a blur of images. He squeezed his eyes shut, bolting from the campus grounds without a destination in mind. Anywhere away from witnesses to shelter the potential breach of tears. An officer could no longer cry; an officer should stand tall and endure against flogging hardships.

Two funerals were enough to last a lifetime, yet Fox misunderstood the ceremonial intent of the mournful black garments and veiled faces. You were to grieve for the lives lost, not yourself. To contemplate mortality at another’s wake was too self-serving. When he stared at each open casket for the final goodbyes, why did their bodies look like his own? Lean arms and lanky legs from a growth spurt that still did not match the other boys’. Hands that once cradled a paintbrush and colored pens, now contorted and molded to an aircraft's controls. His eyes trailed to the face, but he refused to look further.

Was this truly grief he felt? Or was it shame? Did we mourn their passing, or was it our own inevitable demise that we cannot bear when death was flaunted before us?

Raucous questions piled upon him, crawling and nagging to be heard.

Gunned down by enemy fire. Wings clipped and struck to the ground. Metal frames, shattered like glass. The rescue squad would arrive with a tarp and flashlight, recovering his torn, thrashed body from his ship's demolished hull.

Would he be remembered as the diligent, gregarious young heir or the reclusive, cumbersome imitation? What kind of blood-curdling scream would he muster before his Arwing crashed to the surface? How long would he manage to stay alive before his lungs filled with his own blood?

And when they found him, Fox wondered: Would his eyes be closed or open?

Knees bounced on his heels, practically vibrating. Fox wiped the anxiety from his forehead, resuming his attention to the present. This was just morbid indulgence. If he sat still any longer listening to the newsfeed of this destruction, he would surely scream. Fox snuck glances down the hall to General Pepper's office, then back to the secretary. Conveniently, she was preoccupied with a personal call to the nail salon while plucking her upper lip with a tweezer, pulling out invasive weeds of hair from desolate dry skin.

Now or never.

Fox slinked off the couch - more like fell off on his hands and knees - and crept further down the hall, skipping once safely out of sight. He flattened himself against the lacquer-coated door of Pepper's office and then planted his ears against it. He gripped upon one of the handles, gently and slowly opening the door, the click of a lock silent to the party inside. 

The voices were still muffled with spikes of aggression, but coherent enough. Fox could make out the majority of the conversation. He peeked inside.

"The team has been assembled, the ships are fueled and prepped, but there is one thing that I cannot ignore." Peppy paced back and forth in front of Pepper's desk. His eyes scrambled about as if his mind was racing faster than his steps. "Do you think he's ready for this?"

A fireplace wheezed of gas and crackled with smoke and chips of ashen wood. Pepper was settled back in his throne of a chair. Thick fingers united with one another to perch his lordly chin upon. Age had not lessened the gruffness in his voice, nor dulled his cunning wits. There was substantial stiff tension in his neck and shoulders as if locked from wariness, ready to retaliate.

"The boy is our star pupil. He aced his classes and exams, led the pack in various war games with the other military agencies, and smashed practically every flying record in the few years he's been attending the academy. He even managed to knock out James from a few of the leaderboards. There's little we have left to offer or teach him. He's more than ready."

"With all due respect, General, that's not what I was referring to."

The old soldier let loose a bellowing harrumph. "He'll fight, if that's what you're asking. Harder than anyone, I'll bet. Revenge is - and always will be - the most effective motivator." 

At last, Peppy stopped his pacing in front of the fireplace and focused on the shifting of smoldering logs. The shadow of the flames flickered and danced on his dour expression.

"I don't disagree. But a commitment to revenge is a lifelong pact - a trade-off. People devote their entire lives just to get a sliver of its bitter taste. But when they do get it? How much of themselves do they lose in their sheer fanaticism to obtain it? They are as dead as the people they once cherished. The only difference between them is that one is still walking."

"Peppy."

The hare remained still. "Yes?"

"Venom will be upon our doorstep any day now. Now isn't the time for sermons. We need action. We need heroes." Pepper cradled his chin in his hands. Sore eyes flashed with scorn, still not resistant to being challenged. "What is your intent with this conversation? Do you doubt his abilities?"

Peppy shook his head. "Not at all. Perhaps some skills are hereditary; however, skill and talent does not a hero make. He is not like his father. For better and for worse."

"I agree the boy is a bit more reserved and mellow than his kin, but he has fortitude and courage. Extraordinarily creative and courteous to boot. To me, that is enough."

"There are two sides to courage, General. The courage to uphold your sense of morality and the courage to face tremendous danger. I am not sure he has both."

"Do you not share his rage or his pain?" The canine held back a snarl, skin flushing with creeping anger. "I would expect you of all people to understand, as you were there firsthand to see your best friend captured!"

"Of course I understand!" Peppy turned to face the hound, stomping a foot out of aggravation. He then cleared his throat into his fist, reigning in his temper. "But how I wish to carry out my grief - that is my decision to make. He has the right to make his own decision and not be influenced by what we or the public think."

"There is no more time for deciding or questioning. The mantle of Star Fox needs to be passed down. Besides, your deployment contract was just signed moments ago with ink fresher than squeezed octopus from Aquas!" Pepper frowned, now almost pleading. "What's gotten into you, Peppy? I believe it is you who has reservations and not your young protégé."

Peppy lowered his head, his voice dwindling to solemnity. "It's just that if anything were to happen to him - _anything_ at all - it would be my doing. I would have to answer to his family why their son lost his life in this war. I carry with me the burden of failing to protect his father. To possibly carry another burden for the rest of my days is something I cannot comprehend."

The bloodhound squinted with glazed eyes. "Who is this family you speak of? There would be no one left to answer to, Peppy. They are gone." 

A spark of rage within the hare ignited his voice into a yell. "But I would have to answer to myself! I am his family now!" The hare then directed his attention to the floor, ashamed of his outburst. His ears and stance drooped along with it. "And I was under the impression that you were, too."

The excruciating pause flowed out of the room from the crook of the doorway. Fox's shaky breathing was the only thing his mind could focus upon, the rigidity between two distinguished men almost too much to bear. The general worked his jaw, his Adam's apple floated and waggled to the top of his throat as if perpetually forcing down words he knew he would come to regret.

At last, Pepper broke his silence, grinding his teeth. "My old friend, I implore you for one last favor. Cast your concerns aside, or else I fear I will lose you as well. Sacrifices are needed for the greater good, but Corneria can't afford to lose any more of our heroes."

"For the greater good of the future, yes? But what of the present? An appealing promise to one man is just as easily a bold lie to another. I've grown sick of waiting for results. Lately, I am finding there is equal merit in playing both the die-hard cynic and the committed optimist."

"As noncommittal as usual. Some things never change." The bloodhound laughed off the argument, relenting to good nature, and finally at ease. "If you wish to see this better future, then guide him. Mentor and mold him into the hero you think the galaxy's needs. For the legacy of Star Fox must continue."

The hare straightened his posture, resolve replacing hesitation. "And so it shall be done."

Peppy bowed as low as physically possible, holding the position for lengthy seconds. A penitent, respectful display from soldier to soldier, for what are apologies if not fueled by genuine remorse? And with that, Peppy stood with the remnants of his pride and marched out the room towards the doors. 

Fox scrambled backward, swiveling his head side to side to find a quick hiding spot to dive behind. If either party knew that he had been eavesdropping after being told not to then-

The doors flung open, and Peppy halted his march, now adjacent to the vulpine. Fox gulped, frozen in place, jabbering unintelligible words to generate some kind of excuse for his breach in misconduct. Peppy looked straight ahead without dismay as if he knew Fox had been listening. If anything, Peppy was most likely expecting it. But a lack of warmth radiated from the hare, a hard-edge to his tone.

"I will not mince words with you, Fox. Know what I said - I meant it."

Fox nodded, biting his lip in reconciliation. "You don't need to explain yourself, uncle. I understand."

Peppy raised his hand. He was not finished. "As of today, you are honorably discharged and no longer an officer of the Cornerian Army. You are now the leader of Star Fox, the most prestigious mercenary and subsidiary force for all the military branches. Your duty is not just to Corneria, but the galaxy itself. And with that title, you will carry along the traditions and standards that your late father established to even greater glory."

Surely there was no need for the bravado or uplifting speeches for morale. Only conversing in rehearsed salutes and muted valor. Not just yet.

"Tomorrow, we fly off into battle. Your father used to tell me this before an important mission: everything in life is momentum. Lylat will pull, shape, and bend its inhabitants, and we must respond in kind. So if the enemy should fire upon us, we shall meet their declaration for war twice fold. If they dare to come and attack our land and the innocent, then we shall bring the wrath of our retaliation to their own shores."

Something was now changing between the two of them. A divide trembled on the floor like shifting tectonic plates. Peppy was the beams of affection built upon a foundation of a rocky childhood. The sudden, abnormal callousness in his every word was not the same man Fox knew. His uncle was ready to not just let the fledglings leave and glide from the nest, but rather let them plunge headfirst into adulthood. 

Why couldn't Peppy just remain a gentle figure, affectionate and attentive? As a child, Fox would sit in the hare's lap, eager to expound upon the tales he’d illustrate in his sketchbooks. Every time he would gaze up, Peppy matched his enthusiasm with a brightness that could outshine the very sun - an enthusiasm Fox saw from no one else. Swift to follow up with praise or compliments after witnessing a lashing criticism from Fox’s father. 

The aura of confident serenity was now wracked by an emotional storm, volcanic anger that for years had brewed under stony smiles, unable to be held back any longer. As Peppy finally turned to face his new leader, pain wracked his eyes as he expelled a grunt. Almost to say “this hurts me as much as it does you.” Parents often liberally spouted that phrase. Except for this time, Fox believed it.

He was no longer just his uncle, but his co-pilot. His brother-in-arms. His lifeline.

"And don't ever forget this golden rule, Fox: always know-"

* * *

"Fox. Hey, Fox? Come on, man, wake up."

"Why must you screech like alarms of fires? I will be showing you where crawfish hibernate - drowning in the river - unless you shut mouth."

"Do you think he's awake?"

"Poke him. Like dead body."

"I-I don't want to touch him! You do it!"

"Annoying. Sobol always is doing the work."

A faint sound. Soft, but splitting. A bumbling that persisted even when he tried to swat it away. The noise crescendoed to a rowdy urgency, yanking Fox into that muddled, transitory state between the waking and resting world. Just let him sleep. Let him drown in his slumber. Just minutes more - seconds even. It was not he who was demanding - but time itself. Selfish to presume that all its victims must be held to its grueling standard.

The aroma of stale cigarettes and matted sweat pushed him over the edge into awakening. Fox's cheeks were moist in a pool of his own saliva after he’d curled up on the floor. Rigid metal dug into his sides. Cramped muscles prickled with paralysis like fine needles goading the reflow of blood. The dose of sleep was undoubtedly deep, unsatisfying and abrupt, his mind just as drained and unfocused as the night before.

Fox rubbed the grogginess out of his bloodshot eyes. His cowlick of head fur stood out on all ends like a grove of untamed stems and twigs. "Morning already? Can't a guy get at least a decent night's rest before he gets his ass whooped?"

A crusty round object was shoved in his face. Fox blinked, one eye after the other.

"For strength." The sable hunched over before him, presenting a loaf of half-eaten hard rye, freshly scraped clean of mold. He chomped away at his share with a crack at his teeth. Bread crumbs fell from his muzzle like a crumbling sand dune.

Fox shook his head, not keen on sharing a meal with someone he barely knew. The prospect of breaking his canines on a rock of wheat was unappetizing enough, let alone imagining the last time the sable properly brushed his plaque-stained fangs.

Sobol shrugged, then took another bite before walking away. "A warrior can't fight with an empty stomach, MacCloud."

Luck twinkled in Red's pudgy eyes, shuffling up to sit next to Fox, leaning in to whisper. "Aren't you going to correct him? I had to practically give a lecture just to teach him how to pronounce Tachibana." He huffed. "How hard is that? Ta-chi-bah-nah."

"It's fine. I'm starting to think it's intentional at this point." Fox yawned out the last bits of his wooziness. "Honestly, being a 'McClad' or 'MacCloud' sounds pretty good right now. At least they wouldn't have to go fight this dumb duel."

"For someone who is about to fight for his life, you don't seem that particularly shaken about it."

Fox managed a few bouts of high-pitched laughter before his amusement tapered out into a weary sigh. "If stress was measured on a one to ten scale, I think I am at a constant six. That's my normal. All this is just adding on top of my existential crisis pile for the year; more won't matter in the end." He leaned his head all the way back, the top of his skull touching the wall. "When it rains, it pours. And my bad fortune is more a flood. Nowhere to tread or paddle, but simply float and bob with it. Praying that tomorrow and the next that I won't sink to the bottom."

"It's almost bizarre how good you can hide your worry.” Red leaned forward out of admiration. “I can't tell if you're confident or just in denial. If I had to fight Wolf, I don't know what I would do. I mean, just look at me!" Red lifted up his quivering fingers, his hands clammy as if they had been soaked in glacial waters. "Just knowing you have to do this is giving me second-hand anxiety. I feel like my heart is going to pop!"

Fox dug his hands in his pockets - slinking slightly. His pinky might have twitched in a similar fashion. "You wanna trade places?"

"What!? Hell, no!" Shaking fingers now jostled the red panda's entire body. "Does it look like I can fight? I pay people to do that for me!" Red frowned something sour. "At least, I should still be able to… hopefully."

"Come on. Do me a favor. You take the Great Fox's maintenance orders, right?" Fox gleamed with a saccharine cheekiness that was hard to swallow - even for him. "Think of this like another order. The Great Fox can't possibly be kept in working condition if it's captain got hurt. Maybe Wolf will give pity points and cover up his good eye too for you. Help even the odds."

Clasping a hand over his mouth, Red plugged his disapproval. "Do I really need to answer? Like, if you were forcing a gun to my head? Either take the shot or fight Wolf?"

The pilot tilted his head. "Something like that."

The red panda's eyes bulged and failed to blink. More candid and earnest than Fox had ever seen him. "I'd choose a bullet."

"Who is choosing what now?" Sobol walked into the conversation, licking off his fingers from scarfing down the last morsel of food.

Fox and Red shared a couple of snickers, saving themselves a lesson on the absurdity of humor, brief levity that dwindled to another drawn-out moan. Rubbing the crumbs from his scruffy chin, Sobol's gaze clouded, considering interrogating the mocking jokesters. Suddenly, the sable ricocheted his body backward, as if reacting to sudden, crashing noise. The two men on the floor looked at one another and then to the sable. The unquestionable electrical crackle of a blaster rifle in full charge resounded yards away. 

The escort had arrived for the brawl. A company of prison guards, armored in riot gear of tower shields, and cyborg-like power suits of metal stood on the other side of the cell. Eyes of neon gold beamed through fogged visors. detached - standoffish executioners leading the guilty to the guillotine's swift mercy. No guns; rather, the zap of shock batons jangled off the bars. A mere tap quickly transformed into a knockout punch from a champion boxer to even the most herculean of foes. 

Fox looked across the hall to the hulking lizard monitor - gurgling spit and glowering with shrewd interest - flinching fright each time the blue-white static shocks conducted along the cell bars. In S27's case, perhaps two or three love taps could sufficiently incapacitate the bandaged beast. Throw on a provisional shock collar -stars forbid - should the demon ever get loose with havoc.

"Should have had bite when you had chance." Sobol's sunken, calm voice resonated evenly with the electricity. "Though, starvation makes for desperate hunter."

Fox frowned. "I think I'll live." His stomach then growled, hurried arms attempting to smother its protests. 

"Living? Will you now?" Sobol grabbed Fox's arm with a firm squeeze to inject crude compassion, or rather sympathy. "Quick, right? Just play to strengths and use speed to advantage. Don't be reckless, be defensive. Only strike if you can escape. To survive is your goal." The prisoner raised his clenched fist in determination. "Be like my cousin, the mongoose. Unsuspecting. Uses element of surprise. Yet hunter of the deadly and the wicked. Let Wolf underestimate your power, and with his sleeves pulled down, finish him in one blow."

The vulpine's ears flicked with embarrassment from the unexpected counsel. "You don't need to convince me about staying alive. This is just another test. One more examination to ace and master. Nothing more." Fox stood, dusting off his sleeves and pants, and walked out the now-opened cell to be surrounded by the guards' bulwark. He looked over his shoulder with a dashing smirk. "Besides, I have a backup plan."

"You wanna bet there's no backup plan?" The red panda griped to the sable, not even slightly attempting to hide his voice. "… Fox isn't coming back, is he?"

Fox nearly keeled over from the words, tripping over planted marbles of faithlessness. He should have fought harder to get that corporate buffoon to replace him. 

As Fox walked past the monitor lizard's cell with his new entourage, he saw his raised hand - mangled fingers stapled together with missing nails barely waving farewell. A haunting bedevilment of a smile with alligator-like rows of teeth as a send-off as if to celebrate. Another vote for an implausible outcome of victory.

There was no point in dwelling on it now. Fox continued to move forward, step by step, his arms swinging by his sides. All the preparation in the world wouldn't be enough for what was coming to him.

"We're positive, we endure, and we smile through the worst of it," Fox rambled to himself, paying no heed to whether the guards heard him. "We're positive, we endure and we-" Passing through the halls, he caught a split-second of his visage’s reflection in a window, face fogged and bewildered against the endless ebony of space. Fatigue pinched at his forehead and the corners of his eyes, along with a crooked smile that was as authentic as Falco's miserable attempts at decorum. All he could do was laugh. Insincere and unhinged.

Yeah, there was no backup plan. And there never had been one for as long as Fox lived.

* * *

Humid. Dank. Water-logged.

Unbuckling his flight jacket, warm sweat moistened Fox's fur. Whose astounding idea was it to convert the boiler room into an arena?

Heavy industrial fans whirred as they distributed the rising heat. Blinding, beaming rays of lights from giant bulbs only added fuel to the blaze. Giant canisters of water tanks and boilers lined the walls like soldiers in their own right, carrying out their duties to maintain Sargasso's water supply. Steam like hot, scalding breaths as if he were walking into a dragon's lair from his childhood fantasy books- where the beast would slumber, waiting for the unexpected adventurer to dare loot its mound of golden treasure.

The silence blared louder than even the drone of the electrical generator core, pumping life to each tank.

Fox's gaze jumped between Panther and Leon, who stood on opposite ends of the room, neither one acknowledging his arrival. The feline's annoyance read all over his demeanor. He flicked lint off his crimped suit and loosened his collar, sneering and grumbling about the hours it would require to brush the humidity from his fur. Panther scrunched his scar to an unbecoming pout, no doubt preferring to be deployed dealing with shady work than witnessing two adult men fight in a petty squabble.

And there was Leon at last. His waxen green facial scales glimmered with a hunk of metallic bronze, camouflage chemicals brewing in reaction to the vapor. He kept his head tilted back, softly gasping for breath, lounging against the wall as if he were sunbathing—this was the perfect environment for a reptile. Twisted deviance in his exhilaration, gaze traveling as much as his hands fondled his arms and sides. Fox wondered just how easily the chameleon's daydreams could mutate into twisted fantasies.

_Everything in life is momentum. Lylat will pull, shape, and bend its inhabitants, and we must respond in kind._

Fox crossed his arms. Why now did Peppy's words invade his mind? A mental mirage, most likely from the heat's trickery and delirium.

_Don't ever forget this golden rule: always know-_

The golden rule? Why couldn't he remember that one piece of advice? His brain scanned and mined his memories, digging to excavate fragments from a collapse.

Yet the only recollection was that of the recent. A dense, bulging arm wrapping around Fox's frail frame brushed upon the taller man ribs' well-knit grooves. Scents of spicy smoke mixed with swigged aged vanilla bourbon on the tongue, along with hints of winter cedar and eucalyptus combed in the fur. That voice, projected by low pitch and diaphragm, took root in his ears - burrowing with all the intention to linger.

_What you feel like doin' ain't exactly what you're gonna be doin'._

One-eyed bastard. Hayseed layabout. Apple-knocking, rum licking, good-for-nothing bumpkin.

That damn, conniving pirate even robbed Fox of his internal dialogue. All Wolf's words, not his. Where had he heard some of these phrases before, anyway? Sounds like something good ol' Coyote Jones would wrangle up from his youth. Wolf's rural accent was more caricature than anything - at least Fox wanted to believe so - easier to stomach than admit the appeal. The young pilot's nostrils flared, wanting to swear out loud, palming his ears to shake the pirate's seductive voice loose from his mind.

One-eyed bastard. Hayseed layabout. Apple-knocking-

"So, is Wolf going to show up?" Fox blurted out without consideration. "If he's late, I win by default, right? Guess he didn't want to risk losing three times in a row." He laughed as deep as his genetics would allow, mimicking Wolf's low, rustic voice, though that depth still waded in the kiddie side of the pool of credibility. Damn. Still couldn't shake that pirate out of his head. "I bet he would just die from embarrassment and-"

A jagged edge sliced past his cheek, razoring off a thin patch of his orange fur. Fox yelped and jumped back, catching the strands of falling hair. He looked to see Leon retracting, a dagger let loose from its bindings and flung from those elegant hands. An explicit warning to never slander Wolf in his presence again. And Panther awoke from his fit - mouth agape and catching flies - equally stunned and impressed by the throw's precision. If Fox had leaned forward just an inch more, that dagger could have embedded into his face like a blade returning to its scabbard.

"Shhh." Cooing, Leon brushed a single finger to his pursed lips as if to kiss it. "Don't tarry in distractions, little kit. The time is nigh." He then pointed ahead, reptilian eyes transfixed at something lingering in the distance.

Fox perked his ears. There was an atmospheric whistling, liquid-smooth timbre and tone harmonizing together, heightening an otherwise average song into an alluring melody. A tune that was unfamiliar, yet oddly nostalgic, as if Fox could summon lyrics he’d never heard before. For a split-second, Fox wondered what that voice would be capable of in actual vocal performance. How could something so stately be hummed and fleeting from in between those ravenous fangs?

Fox took a step back, steeling himself against the creeping figure ahead as he emerged from the steam. And there his rival was, regal in presence when at last bathed in light. The dark swaths that coated Wolf's pelt in actuality were more a silver-grey - plentiful, argentine tinges enticing to ensnare one's fingers to the touch. Swank and conceit still furrowed his brows, no hesitation in his deadly tread. Charisma in spades, magnetizing a crowd in seductive awe with honey-dipped words, but just as swiftly bringing them to their knees, cowering from a withering glare.

Fox amended his previous lesson from yesterday. Charm can be dangerous, just as charisma was evidently a double-edged sword: it inspired but with just the right grip and corruptive intent behind its twist, it could be manipulative. Victims would do anything to be on the receiving end of its wielder's goodwill.

And the pirate lord's vertebrae postured upright, unperturbed by the imminent moments ahead, studying his approaching opponent. Wolf offered a look that suggested admiration as much as it did contempt.

Par for the course, that detestable scowl of a smile remained affixed to his muzzle.

Wolf tossed aside his leather jacket, wearing only a black tank underneath, skintight along with the defined brawn of his thick pectorals and ridged abdomen. Shards of hair protruded from his mountainous shoulders, along with tufts of white from the top of his exposed chest. Imposing, muscular arms appeared like solid dumbbells capable of heinous feats of strength. A body that was toned and conditioned from years of tenacious training and combat - or merely stubborn persistence. The pirate's garish preference for layers of spiked leather and chains did him no justice; such an accomplished physique was meant to be seen.

This exhibition was more than just a boast or grandstand. The pirate needed no gun or blade, no ship to dispense a salvo of laser fire. Why want for more when the body abounded with blessings? His claws were ready to grapple like bird talons soaring to their prey. Teeth and fang clamping and shattering bone and flesh alike in one chomp. A living, breathing weapon - tempered just with bloodlust and victory - immune to hesitation or lament. A weapon just needs to cut. To kill.

Once again, their eyes met and danced together. Wolf's smoldering, unrelenting glare paralyzed the young pilot, who then gasped.

The smokescreen that had veiled Wolf's eye dissipated. The pure iris of amaranth, once devoid of emotion, was now peeled back by the pupil's swirling dilation. Fox peered inside the bottomless abyss of its darkness that distilled only one passion: hunger. But for what? For power? For avarice or for lust? Or perhaps a desire so tremendous that its goal was irrelevant. This aching craving sought not to simply take, but to reclaim. A hunger not fueled by desperation.

No. This was entitlement.

"Damn, boy. Do you know how long I've been plumb crazy waitin' for this day? Five. Long. Years. I had such a _stiffy_ last night - could barely get a wink of sleep!" Wolf thrust his hips outward in a lewd swing, cackling all the while.

Resentment dripped along with Fox's sweat. Don't look down at his thighs, and don't take the bait. Meet him head on. Everything is momentum, so respond in kind.

Foolish. Fox blinked away the dizzying embarrassment. Just why did his opponent's pants need to be so tight? Was there some sort of tactical advantage to that? Not suitable for combat by any means. If Wolf's steps were too spacious, it might hamper his movements. Yet the pirate's height would allow him more enormous strides than he could ever manage. But those legs were pure muscle like the rest of him, continually pushing and pulling his weight like beasts of burden. Fox's eyes trailed up the pirate's knees then to his thighs, following upward to-

"Ha!" Wolf snorted, catching Fox in the act. "Get your priorities straightened out, boy! Get it? Straightened out?"

He looked down, didn't he? Damn it. Fox crossed his arms, concealing his irritation. More annoyed that Wolf's heckle even bothered him to begin with. Vulgar half-wit.

Wolf stepped closer, just several feet away. "I dare say this meeting was written on the heel. And if the creek don't rise, I reckon we get right on it. Are you ready?"

"I don't ever remember you being this… frank." Fox kicked at the floor in trepidation. "To be fair, I guess I never really knew you at all."

"That's all about to change. Right here and now."

"I suppose it will." Fox sighed. "Can't ever fight the inevitable change in any of its forms no matter how hard I try."

"Do you know what it means to fight? To battle? The thrill and anticipation of real combat?" The pirate wet his muzzle. "My muscles are tensed and primed for action. The skin’s flushin' on my face but burnin' on my limbs. My heart pumpin’ adrenaline through my entire body." Raising his arms, Wolf turned about until he spun full circle, taking an extended breath through his nose, and exhaled. "This is what I live for."

Wolf took another step, now in arm’s reach for the first strike, if initiative and luck were willing. "I wonder what gets under your skin, boy?" Wolf leaned in, bent at the knees to Fox's level. "What's wrong? Your daddy ain't around to tuck you in? Well, in my house, _I'm your daddy_. And I'm about to knock your ass goodnight."

"I could use the sleep," Fox said with more assertiveness than intended. He watched Wolf stand once more, the heat of the room channeling into the pirate’s killer grip. "Maybe you should get some sleep as well." 

"Oh-ho. I'll be damned. Lil' McCloud is gonna show me up? Now you're startin' to speak my lingo." Wolf drawled with salaciousness, exposing his neck and wiggling his eyebrows. "I'm not one to be dilly-dallyin', so I'm feelin' generous. I'll let you throw the first punch."

Fox would rate Wolf in the top three of the most ferocious opponents he had ever faced. It was one thing to be an ace pilot, but it was entirely unorthodox for him to fight on land. His nemesis was not to be underestimated, regardless of his playing field. On this sweltering stage in his home turf, claws and fangs glistening with that half-shrug and smirk, Wolf was privy to the obvious, painstaking secret that Fox was finally outmatched. This duel's stakes were severe. If they went through with this, the victor’s and loser’s lives would be forever changed.

On the one hand, if Fox won, that would be one less threat for Corneria. He would clear a path for the military forces to restore the outer realms of Lylat. Wolf would be logged away, once again becoming another painful memory of the war. Locked behind bars, maximum security, caged and bound by the ankles and neck like the rotten criminal he was. Imprisoned for a lifetime in a destitute, fetid tight cell, just like the one in which Fox had resided for the night.

On the other hand, if Fox lost, he would have to step down from Star Fox forever. No longer having to face the relentless public criticism or the slanders and smearing of the media. Free from the responsibilities of being a perfect hero while maintaining his heroic image and endeavors. Released from the binding mercenary contracts and the constant fighting. He had paid his service in surplus already. Any more would be the death of him.

A flutter stirred in Fox's gut. If he lost… could he finally be free from his ordained family legacy at last? At last there would be a legitimate excuse, rather than just walking away. To be defeated at the hands of one of the most notorious criminals in the galaxy. Dishonorable, yes, but better than being known as an impassive, broken-down hero past his prime. How did he not realize this sooner? Guilt flushed with giddiness. Joy and fear waltzed hand-in-hand and radiated in his chest. Did hope always taste this sweet?

Wolf's grin had shrunk - ever so slightly. His eye scanned Fox with dismissive judgment, sensing this sudden burst of undisclosed emotions but unable to fully discern their meaning. Rocky knuckles that protruded from his hands flexed and cracked.

"You ready for my first move, then?" Fox said, legs parted and arms at the ready. Wolf pounded his fists together with a vicious, toothy smile, bracing for impact. "Get ready, because you're about to get everything that's coming to you," the pilot stood on the tips of his toes, winding up a punch with a pivot like a propeller to a submarine, "and I don't think you can handle it!" He aimed at Wolf’s nose directly with all his strength and… stopped. All the force froze and remitted to just a finger tapping Wolf right on the end of his snout. The lupine didn’t even flinch, but snorted air as hot as the steam.

Fox bounced backwards, hands behind his back, green eyes shining with relief. "I forfeit. You win. I'm not going through with this."

The entirety of Wolf's conceit and ego drooped to bafflement, an incredulous look in his eye. "What did ya just say?"

"You win, ok? I'll accept any consequences from the terms of the duel. That coveted first place prize you've been slobbering over, it’s finally yours. Best pilot? Done. Best mercenary? Printed and notarized. I'll even scan over the official documentation once I get back home." A smile ripped through his cheeks so wide Fox thought he might need stitches. "In other words, I'm not interested in fighting. You can take your duel and shove it."

Pure rage contorted Wolf's face. Veins protruded from his scrunched forehead, and hackles curled to showcase his fangs. The anger Wolf manifested the day before, when Fox had been dangling in the air, was a mere shadow to this. Pure rage was silent and seething, like brewing storm clouds to channel and direct contemptible thunder. Just how much destruction did this man repress within him?

The sweetness of Fox's brewing hope could no longer sustain him. His heart pounded and skipped a beat off rhythm - irregular. This was what he wanted, right? So why did this victory feel so unsatisfying and hollow?

"Like hell you ain't!" Wolf snarled back, fists now huddled in a boxer's stance. "Fox McCloud, a coward? Disgraceful." His tail swished as if to steel his balance. "Maybe I'll just have to mosey about and capture your teammates. It was easier than slidin’ off a greased log to find you; I bet my men can bring them over no problem. Have them suffer the consequences since you're so quick to throw in the towel. Not even givin' two fucks about what happens to Star Fox!"

"You wouldn't," Fox stammered. "Not even you would do that!"

"Come on, boy. We both know I would. I'm just that much of a bastard," Wolf rasped, just as irritated. "Neither one of us is leavin' until I get my rematch! It's either you fight, or all your friends will pay for the desertion of your duty!"

"That wasn't the terms of our duel, Wolf!"

"Neither was it for ya to give up!" A bold, harsh finger pointed at Fox. "The times that we fought during the war. Our multiple excursions outside the battlefield. Use that hatred for me once more. I know y' have it in you."

Hate? Had he always held that emotion within him? Was he supposed to? Fox tried to conjure up said emotion, and all he felt was a mere fizzle. A cipher of a feeling. To hate was to engrave a name that could never be forgotten upon his heart. Why waste energy remembering when he wished that everyone else would forget him instead?

The world existed in aspects of duality and balance. Orbiting, opposing forces for every concept or notion. Life and death. Beauty and vile. Love and hatred. But if there was one thing that war had taught Fox was that, at the median of every aspect of life, opposites were not always inherently different but interchangeable and complementary when viewed in the proper perspective.

Death of a body to cultivate the earth to grow new life. Beauty in the eye of the beholder. Love and hate - passions of utmost intensity, with the capacity of both good and evil. These things were not just one dimensional but somewhat cyclical, shifting and changing depending on the context or motivations. For the veritable antithesis of all things in life was - and would always be - indifference.

"What hatred? How can I use something that I don't have? I don't hate you, Wolf."

Wolf grunted. "What did you just say?" 

Fox leaned back, a flatness in his voice. "I said I don't hate you. Why would I?"

The anger drained from Wolf's expression as it diminished to vacancy. Soulless.

Fox called out once more, voice tinged with dread. "Because we fought before? That's not reason enough for me to hate you. Sure, I don't particularly like you by any means, but hate is a bit much. I just don't bear any resentment towards you specifically - It's just not personal to me."

"Shut yer trap!" Wolf screamed with such ferocity that it muted Fox's eardrums. Fox could make out from the corner of his eye an image of Panther recoiling, whiskers fried to a fringe. And next to him, Leon stood, biting down on several fingers like a gag, salivating. 

Huffing his fumes out, Wolf's chest heaved as if he swallowed an inferno. An acid-tipped voice trailed out of a slack-jawed mouth as if the words burned him when he spoke. "What am I to you?"

"I-I don't know." Fox's eyes rolled in their sockets, searching for an answer that could placate the pirate before him.

"Answer me!"

"I don't know, Wolf! What do you want me to say, exactly? What could possibly satisfy you? You've always had a vendetta against me years ago since the first day we met, and I still don't know why that is! You're just a-"

"A nuisance?!" Wolf finished the words for him. "Is that what you think of me? Was I not even worthy enough to be a rival in your eyes? Or even a threat!?"

Fox prickled. "Wolf, listen to me. We’re both mercenaries. It's the name of the game. We were on opposing ends, and neither one could back down from a fight. I had a job, and you had one as well. That's it. End of story. There's nothing more beyond that."

"No, I heard what you said," Wolf uttered, scorching and derisive. "I've got a sight impairment, but I ain't fuckin' deaf. Y'never once thought that I could go toe to toe with ya. Cocky, pesky son of a bitch."

"God damn it, why won't you listen to me!? I don't want to fight you! This is what you wanted, right? You wanted Star Fox disgraced and disbanded." Fox gestured all about his bristling form. "Here you go then! Just look at how freaking pathetic I am right now - I'm giving you what you want!"

"That ain't what I fuckin' want!" The lupine almost barked like a rabid animal. "I could care less about your damn merc team. I need my reputation back. My pride. None of that will be restored until I get an honest fight, fair and square!" Wolf pounded his chest as it rippled. "Do you know the things I've had to do to get this point in my life? The sleepless nights pinin' for survival? But what do you know of that, huh? Placed upon a pedestal soon as you're born, sucklin' on a silver spoon instead of a tit. The little darlin' of Corneria that can't do no wrong."

Reputation was nothing but a leech, a supposed panacea. Extracting our illnesses of inferiority and self-degradation for the curative properties of fame and praise. But when it took the first sip to a gulp, engorged upon misery, the parasite would not be satisfied until it has the entirety of its host. Once in the public eye, the masses ogled and pondered how much longer the reputable could balance upon their rickety bridge of fame. Knowing full well that the misery that wracked and diseased the body had never left, more rampant and viral than before under crushing judgment - and now twice as transparent.

Fox sniffled tears back into their ducts. "T-that's not true, Wolf. You've got it all wrong. I'm not this infallible, spoiled person you're making me seem like. Believe me, I've got my own problems. I don't know your history, but you don't know mine either. That doesn't make our suffering any less valid."

"Then prove it to me! Here and now! Raise your fists and fight for your damn honor! Let me show you, McCloud, what I am to every other being in this galaxy. Why, every man, woman, and child succumbs to fear when they hear the name, Wolf O'Donnell." The pirate glowered, biting down on his hard jaw. “And if you won’t throw the first punch, maybe I will!” 

_One-eyed bastard. Hayseed layabout. Apple-knocking, rum licking, good-for-nothing bumpkin!_

Anger jolted and electrified Fox's body. The time for words was done. "Fine then! If a beating is what you want, let me give you another one to remember!"

Adrenaline surged through him. Fox's body propelled forward, a frantic squall of punches aimed towards his nemesis. The pirate hunkered down, forearms matching and deflecting as a buckler reflected blades, unshaken. Fox did not relent, committed to the lunge of his arms, the thrashing, and the pain. No force or storm would deter his assault forward. A muted mind now heightened - awakened - with just action.

Sobol's advice left his ears as easily as it had slipped in. This was a match that could not be won with strength alone. He needed to rely on his speed and agility. But that large oaf couldn't fight what he couldn't hit or see. If Fox pressed the attack, Wolf won’t even have the chance to strike back.

Shifting his stance, Fox's legs shuffled and his feet bounced, gathering force that his fists lacked. A roundhouse kick swept in an arc as Fox's feet rushed forward. Spinning as a dervish in his attacks, lashing with the same whirling strike again, and again, and again. Wolf staggered back, parrying every blow as if his arms were splitting a torrent of rushing waters, but continued to fall back and lose ground.

A sense of warmth stirred and fanned in Fox’s gut - potential victory in sight. A contest of mettle and spirit now in Fox's control and favor. He just needed one precise, defining blow to the head or his eye, blinding his nemesis into submission. Yet despite the whirlwind of his blows, Wolf's gaze was alert, yet calm, almost as if he was waiting just for the right moment to-

Fox's movement came to an abrupt crunch. He tugged at his leg with no avail. A desperate, anguished gasp as his boot was now bitten by Wolf's claws like a sprung bear trap. A fish swimming upstream, at last, plucked by an opportunistic hunter.

And that vast calm now became a toothy grin. _Gotcha._

"You'll need more skill than that, you uppity brat!" Wolf shoved Fox's leg back, bum-rushing like a bull afflicted with bloodlust, and tackled his opponent to the floor. Claws grooved into Fox's wrists as he squirmed against the pirate's weight. His legs and arms pinned down as if the ground had swallowed him in place.

"Do you know what dying feels like?" Wolf said with a chill that could freeze in an instant. Utilizing a minuscule amount of his strength to force the vulpine down.

"No," Fox whimpered, his eyes wide, struggling to see past the lupine's vicious maw. The lupine's sweat beaded down upon his cheeks.

"I do. At your hands, no less. Crashed landed, my body cold and wet from my wounds, glass stuck in limbs. Crawling with one arm out the hull before it exploded, the rest of my body too fucked up to cooperate. Later, I awoke at a medical ward in a Venomian camp with staples in my gut and neck. Almost even lost my other eye completely, it was so swollen from a rupture to my orbital bones. I just slept for days on end. Wakin' up only to slog back in bed. I didn't eat. Food was tasteless like shit. I'd stare directly into a lamp for hours until it singed my sight to white. I'd thought if I went completely blind, I'd never have to see how pathetic I'd become."

Fox swallowed. The power in his body leveling - falling. He… did that to Wolf?

"What gives you the right to send so many people to their graves six feet under and not even know." Wolf loured with fangs dripping. "But y' never bothered to care, did you? You're a merc. It's just a job. Somethin' you're _supposed_ to do. Your killin' is clinical. Systematic and selfish. Nothin' but a pawn or a dog carryin' out orders to satisfy its master."

"Stow it, Wolf!" Fox shouted back, still struggling in Wolf's pin. All his regret shifted to vengeance. "You were a mercenary too! Fighting just for the money and cowering to Andross' beck and call! How the fuck can you judge me when you've done the same shit?!"

"Because I know what I do, and I don't take it lightly. I'm not pretendin' to be better than what I am. I'm a killer—a goddamn criminal. Every man I've slain rests within me. But you pretend like nothin' ever happened at all. That you're a hero. That taking life is just inconsequential. Another dead enemy is just another number of your success. Its downright disgustin' is what it is."

"No! I'm not like that at all! I just…" Fox cried out. Were all his actions truly just trivial to him? "I had a duty. I had to protect my people." Was Wolf right? "I had to protect myself!"

That devil's eye. Laser-focused as a sniper's scope hunting from miles away, searing through his skull. Eyes had always haunted Fox McCloud. Drilling their projected standards, but only craving to ever unearth failure. But this one - that infernal, cursed gaze - this one was the worst of all. It would not rest until it destroyed him. Weakening his shell of a body until it became brittle and cracked under insurmountable pressure. A trifling prod to shatter his form into a thousand pieces - never to put back together again.

Why? Why must he look at him with that hateful, spiteful eye? Instilling all his blame and suffering, melded into an arrow ready to pierce. The only one other person who had ever hunted with him with such dastardly, hateful eyes was:

That unnatural, abomination of a giant head - morphed with wires instead of veins, gears instead of a heart. The extent of the evil that can be wrought when the mortal mind sought to understand the god within the machine solely with science and logic alone. How can one be reputable, knowledgeable, and a savant of biology and chemistry such as him ever being corrupted into that tyrant? What degree of tragedy and demons could have possibly changed his good nature?

Andross. Wolf's eye was just like Andross himself.

"…What is wrong with your eye?" Fox stuttered shallow, rapid breaths. Panic sizzling like a lit explosive - ready to detonate and explode.

He's going to find out everything that you've hidden from the world for so long. _Doesn't he know? Can't he see?_

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

That's you're weak. _He cannot break…_

"Stop that. Stop looking at me like that!!"

That you're worthless. _…what's already been broken._

"I asked you, damn it!"

That you're an actor. _I can tell just by watching him now._

"W-why are you looking at me like that!?"

And when the curtains fall- _He should know better than anyone else here what that is like._

What was this feeling that threatened to scream and tear him open? What was this despair that hollowed his chest and chilled his pulse? This nauseating hopelessness threatening to upheave and babble all his fears?

Was this what Wolf felt as he struggled to clot his every wound after he clashed? His life spilling out from his cold body? Or all the people he shot and exploded in the rubble of debris within the orbit of space? Their graveyard nothing but the black void?

Was this… what _dying_ felt like?

Fox began to fade out from reality. Mind seized by mysterious hands grabbed and clawed his sight with tips of dagger-like stone, squeezing into submission. His vision was transported to the vibrant forests of the McCloud manor. Serene. Everything so sparkling blue and crisp green. Hands ran through leaves as he ran past forest branches as the wind rode through his fur.

He came upon a joyous sight. The ruins of his mother's garden now renewed with a life and vitality that he had not seen since his childhood - flowers in bloom, resting with delicate dew, and dripping of succulent nectar. But there was something different - the garden hosted an event. Rows of wooden seats. An altar without a casket. Not a soul in sight. A funeral without attendants.

There was a knocking - a tremor in the ground. A shovel impaled and upright in a mound of dirt, exhausted from heaping out piles, only to ladle and trample back the newly planted gift inside. Something moved underneath, floundering to sift and trudge through the earth, but the land pummeled gravel downward, choking its victim back down into its belly.

_Is someone in that coffin?_

The dirt began to spew out like a geyser. Specs of dark matter raining down, the smell of ozone, and decay in the air.

_Someone! Anyone!? Get them out of the ground!_

A coffin launched out from the ditch. Cut of pure mahogany of the finest growths. An epitaph of an inscription left unfinished.

_Help me! They're trying to get out!_

And the casket revealed itself, seal unlocked, handle lifted into the air. Creaking wood snapped open like a great tree succumbing to the sundering ax.

_… It's me?_

Inside was a meager, lanky form, matted orange fur caked of blood and maggots. Sprawled out like a ragged, marionette doll, noosed and tied down with its own cut strings.

_It's me!_

And his green eyes now a pit of rotting moss - swollen and engorged - opened wide. For death had come to shepherd the last of their flock home.

_Oh god, it's me!_

The vision ripped from Fox's mind, and he unleashed a blood-curdling scream, shaking and wailing like a banshee. 

"What the hell!?" Aghast by the sudden disturbance, Wolf's grip unclasped just enough for the vulpine to struggle and worm his way out of Wolf's hold, crawling at the floor as if he were climbing a cliff without the support of a rope or harness, at risk of falling to his demise with a simple misstep.

I’m going to die i’m going to die I’m going to die 

Shame soured his throat - dry, heaving. His skin flushed cold and shaken. A body at war with its own flesh. Panic and dread infused and intertwined, splitting his skull open, detonating and exploding in perpetual reactions. There was no room, cove or place to which he could retreat. For now, everyone could see the terrible demon that haunted him.

"He's faking it!" Panther shouted from the corner. "Finish him off already!"

"Enough!" Wolf roared back to the feline as his muzzle curled in revulsion from the sudden interruption. He glared again at Fox. "This is the man that defeated me during the war?! I lost to someone as pathetic as you!? You're nothin' more than some punk pretendin' to be his father!"

The blood left Fox's limbs, nerves barren and wilting. His heartbeat and jived and rattled his ribcages to the extent they might snap.

"Get up and swing at me! Lunge at me! Use every part of your being against me! Fight to survive, damn it!"

His lungs scrunched, his throat wheezed, but air eluded him. Vision blurred black for a second—his head light-headed falling to a dizzy spell.

"What's wrong now, punk!? You had no problem shootin' me down before. Leavin' me to my fate when I crashed. So do it again! Just pretend I'm in that cockpit right now!"

Oxygen regulation gear shifted sharp from automatic to manual. Breathing? He wasn't breathing anymore. Why wasn’t he breathing anymore?!

"Hey!" Wolf called out, perplexed, and contemptuous. "What the hell is wrong with you? I didn't even fuckin' beat you down yet!"

Fox fell to the floor in a fetal position. Choking, pleading, hyperventilating. "P-please…I-I can't breathe..."

A flash of terror ran through Wolf's cold, ruthless veneer. Eye narrowed with confusion. "No. Don't you dare do this. Not right now." A slight stammer in the pirate's voice. "Don't be playin' no games with me. I ain't in the mood for it!" He recoiled with his jaw slack. "You're lyin'. You're performin'. You couldn't possibly be-"

A crack formed in the locked chamber of his eye, red hunger and anger spilling out until only a drip of leery concern was left. Fox could only see Wolf's steel-tipped boots before him, his body blanketed within Wolf's cooling shadow. The pirate's gaze softened and lowered his arms to his sides. Hostility compressed and released from his stance. "… You're serious, aren't you?"

He breathed as fast as his heart hammered his chest. Gasp and pant. Pant, then gasp.

"Look at me." Wolf's deep voice hovered over him.

Fox could hear someone speaking, but the words were all lost. The drum of his heart ruptured through his ears. Gasp and pant. Pant, then gasp.

"I said - _look_ at me!" Wolf had crouched before him. The claw of a thumb nestled on Fox's bottom lip, awakening him from his delirium. Andross was gone. The Wolf O'Donnell he met the other day had vanished. Biting his cheek, he shook his head, glimmers of faint worry over his expression. The rough and scathing voice now sanded down into a smooth and soothing ring. It was as if another person altogether wore this intimidating figure's body. Where were the disparaging, sordid remarks? The constant testing and prodding that no answer could ever appease? The fangs biting through his neck, claiming the bounty of his glory at long last, and yet-

"We're gonna breathe together, alright?" Wolf opened his mouth and placed his large hand on Fox's stomach. The vulpine shuddered from it’s warmth. "Gather up your air from here. Drive it home like you're chugged full - and hold." The pirate's chest inflated and preserved the air for several seconds, then he parted his mouth, gently releasing the wisp of air like singing an extended note.

"I-I can't! My body w-won’t let me!" The young pilot choked and wheezed, drowning in air. "It won't… I can't… someone h-help me, please, I can't-"

"You can, Fox. You must." The other clawed hand gripped Fox's shoulders. Tight, but without force. The same hand and arm that entangled and constricted his body with strength to snuff the life out of him. Wolf now propped his frail body up, safe and secured. 

"Watch what I do, then repeat. You can do it. I believe in ya."

A slight nod from the vulpine, crooking of the neck upward as if the doll now found its strings tethered back. He watched Wolf's immense chest expand and deflate, and his own wracked body imitated as best he could.

"Good. Again. Real nice and slow like."

And Fox did as instructed. Watching Wolf's placed hand rise against the rolling tides of his chest, to support not suppress, as if Wolf was conjuring the air within him. White noise and heartbeat faded from his ears. The fans and engines of the room are now more present and alive. The vision now attuned to the present.

"That's it, keep at it. Breathe out softly like you're whistlin' a lullaby. You can whistle, right?" The pirate crooned a high note like a simmering tea kettle. "Just like that."

Fox coughed, attempting to do the same, sputtering about spittle. One talent out of the many of his repertoire that he didn't possess. But he continued to follow Wolf's guidance and explicit instruction. Slow and calm equilibrium returned to his lungs—a silent, contrite gesture from his body's prompt betrayal.

"Well, you'll learn. I bet you're a quick learner." Wolf grimaced, wiping the vulpine's excess spit off his face. He then bopped Fox right on the nose. Fox almost sneezed, blinking at the drastically impish gesture. Retribution for earlier. "How ya feel?"

Not better. Not normal, but not worse than before. The slope and descent down the proverbial cliff would be a sluggish one. "I'm ok. I'll be ok," Fox whispered. "I just need to… sit down. Just a moment. Please."

"Take your sweet time, alright?" The lupine sighed. "And you can relax, 'cause I'm callin' the fight off."

Wolf stood again and loomed over Fox, chin turned downward, arms crossed. Aloofness mixed with displeasure. He wore an expression like a parent scolding a rebellious child. "So this is the hero who took me down. The son of the mighty James McCloud. All hat and no cattle. Nothin' more than a snivelin' kid."

Suddenly, a choking gag ruptured in lupine's throat.

With his neck and arms wobbling about like a newborn, Fox summoned every morsel of strength in his aching muscles to lift himself up. The lupine was rigid in place, a vacuous smile, blank in his expression. Empty - as if he had been sapped and clubbed behind the head as his blood drained from his face. Wolf's eye twitched, then grew wide, snapping back to reality. Fox was mesmerized by the sight before him. He could pinpoint the very exact second when realization sunk into his nemesis' brain.

"A kid?" A single, wretched chuckle that quaked Wolf's entire body with it. "I… lost to a kid?"

"I-I… " Wolf looked at both of his clawed hands. Waves of disgust flushed over him with quivering palms as if holding a horrific object from a ghastly, former memory. Strands of his white mohawk, damp and disheveled, scattered upon his forehead. With a scream of a growl, Wolf shuddered his head and threw his fists to his sides. The pirate hung his head low, dipping his chin to his chest. "You're no soldier. Never was one. You're really just a kid, aren't you?"

Sorrow climbed and scratched Fox's throat. His voice returned, albeit feeble. "I'm none of those things anymore. I've left everything behind - my body and my soul. I've got nothing left to give. Just nothing." Fox swallowed the moisture in the air for a desperate drink. His face falls for his hands to catch it. "I'm nothing."

"Damn it! Fuckin' god damn it!" Wolf charged to the wall, jousting a firm punch into the frame that practically shook the room. Rage in its purest form - aimless and terrifying all the same.

"What glory is there to be had in this?" Another hook. "Why am I always denied victory?" Two more swings. Indentations now bending steel as if it were flimsy linoleum. "How much longer do I need to wait?!" The onslaught continued, a flurry of punches until a substantial crevice formed like a rocky crater. Something dripped from its center, a sticky, wet substance, resin-like. "What more must I do to get the fuckin' justice I deserve?!" 

It was… his blood?

Wolf raised his fist to the sky, yelling at the top of his lungs with a shattering cry without mercy to those in earshot. Ire catapulted to the ceiling to an unknown audience. "This is just my lot in life, is that what you're tellin' me? Am I just meant to live and suffer from failure after failure until I kick the bucket? What other wrenches are you gonna throw my way?!"

Droplets of his bloody knuckles splatter and ooze to the floor; vital plasma oxidized into a gritty maroon. Precious wastefulness.

"How did it get to this point?" Now a mere hoarse of a scream. His voice shook as if the lupine had been sobbing without tears. A plea was unrecognized. "How am I supposed to go through with somethin' like this?!"

Fox teetered to the side. Blood did spill this day, just not his. He watched as Leon crept to Wolf's flank in distress, stilettos clacking. The chameleon's gentle, consoling hands swayed upon the lupine's hunched back. They spoke to one another, but Fox was unable to puzzle out their conversation. Eventually, Leon relented as Wolf cast his aid aside with a bitter swing.

"Panther," Wolf muttered with dejection, licking his own bloody knuckles clean.

The feline stepped forward, ebony fur frizzed, seemingly nonchalant. "Yes, boss?"

The dejection did not last long. Bitterness seeped back into the pirate's voice as he bared his fangs. "Contact the doctor down in the wards in MidSector. Get a room ready for our _pretender_ here."

"At once, boss." The feline bowed.

"Get him out of my sight. I can't-" Wolf turned his back to Fox. His shoulders curled over his chest - a thickness formed in his throat. "Not like this."

Fox slumped to the floor. All senses frazzled and burnt out. It was over - salvation in mercy. He could at last sleep again. His consciousness began to fade, the darkness consuming him. It sang in whispers and chirps, and for the first time, Fox accepted its gracious offer. Eyes rolled back, falling deeper in the sloughs of the mind where the forbidden secrets are hidden, only to see it empty. Now unleashed. 

The darkness that covered him was not a secondary source, but rather his own, gushing out of his mouth and ears. His own latent sorrow now spewing and free-flowing.

They knew everything now—all of them.

Fainting, Fox's head hits the floor. Vision fading into-

.....

....

...

..

.

**Inky black**.

.

..

...

....

.....

* * *

_What's that, dear? Are you lonely because daddy is out again? You know he's going to return… in a few weeks._

_Oh? You want me to check under the bed?_

_No need. Monsters don't exist. And if there were monsters, they should be scared of you._

_Why? Well, why shouldn't they be? They pick on you, and they’ll have to face an angry mother's wrath. I'm sure your imaginary friends and, uh, that Mr. Cowboy-person will come to protect you as well._

_Besides, those monsters are just jealous that you have everything they don't. A loving mother and father. A comfy bed, warm food, and plenty of toys. A heart, a soul, and a beautiful smile._

_But I'll look anyway, just for you. A safety inspection is another of a mom's many duties._

_Yep. Just as I thought. No monsters, besides the few dust bunnies under there. Pretty ferocious in their own right, but nothing to worry about._

_It's late at night, dear. You can't rest appropriately with all that brightness prickling your brain awake. One or two of those night lights will do._

_As scary as the darkness is, it has many purposes, just as the light does. You might not understand this now, but I look forward to this time at night. Sitting with a book in my bed, alone with my own thoughts. Sometimes I crave that solitude, just like my plants need the sun._

_The night will pass just as it will return. Think about how the next day will be better—the surprise and excitement of what marvelous things tomorrow can bring. And the more you look and wander about the room, you'll realize that everything here is exactly the same as it was just hours ago. When you stand before a mirror, with or without the light, it does not change the fact that you are still there. Still whole, still breathing._

_And I just want to remind you in case you ever forget._

_I love you._

_I cherish you so much. I love you more than I think I love even myself._

_And remember - as long as I'm here - you're safe. Nothing will ever harm you._

_As long as I'm here~_

* * *

**Next Chapter: Conatus**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter was done in tribute by one of my favorite Star Fox fics of all time: Anthem by Swiper.No.Swiping. Unfortunately, they took down most of their work, however, that piece will always remain as one of my biggest inspirations in starting to write just a few months ago. 
> 
> This chapter, in particular, was very difficult to write on an emotional level. I will say that there will be some lighter moments ahead, especially at the midway point of the story. Got a lot of ground to cover, so I hope all of you enjoy and stick with me. Appreciate your time and reading this dumb project of mine.
> 
> \- Ixode


	5. Conatus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Update 8/16) Once again, the previous chapter - Meager - has now been updated with another fanart submission by the wonderful uwur-sempai! I humbly request you take a moment to flip back and take a peek. Please follow and support them here: https://uwur-sempai.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you again! I am so touched that you took the time once more to create something from my story!

Fox awoke surrounded only by the prickling of fluorescent lights. They scathed the room from corner to corner, yet unable to wholly brighten within their reach. As he laid down, he stared with crazed fascination at the light directly above him on the ceiling. Any second now, the bulb might descend like a broken chandelier, glass shards skewering his fragile body. Fox just needed to know what it was like - what _he_ had suffered. Like a repentant sinner flogging off his sins, as if physical punishment would absolve a crime inflicted upon another's soul.

The light, at last, dropped a shining pin into his cornea. Fox blinked out a gush of tears, unable to commit to his objective. Wolf was right - that shit did sting.

There would be no dreaming for Fox McCloud this night beyond the confines of the clinic. The IV dripped like an insipid rainfall, pumping the sole sustenance he'd had in over a day. The EKG needle droned like summer cicadas, transcribing every spike of his heartbeat. Steady, but lively, it announced its reassurance. The mattress, however, was too firm and thin for his liking. Every toss and roll was met with a jab from a metal spring coil into his ankles and hips.

Fox had lived this moment before. Not in this room, but the stinging wafts of disinfectants and the sterile, luminous atmosphere of the medical ward bore familiarity. Carefully, Fox propped himself upward, then felt a slight, aching tug on his arm. A catheter clawed inside his veins, securing him bedside like handcuffs.

As he sat up, a cool breeze ran along his exposed spine, trembling an even vibration throughout his body. He was now dressed in a loose, backless hospital gown: easy, breezy, and ass-less. Could be his tagline if he made a fashion line for the clothing-challenged. 

Fox's chest tightened, wondering where exactly his uniform (and from the feel of it - his underwear as well) had scampered off to. It wasn't an issue that he was stripped down but instead, _who_ actually did the stripping. 

Pursing his chapped lips, Fox attempted to yawn moisture into his dry mouth after a notable sleep. He surveyed the room - about a dozen empty beds, boxes of medical supplies, and not another soul in sight. Relief snorted through his nose; he’d hoped no one discovered his other insecurity of being a notorious snorer. The cellmates made no remarks to suggest it just yet, but he'd suffered plenty of inside jokes from Slippy and Falco that his snoring was less sawing down a log and more a chainsaw to a steel bar. 

Bedside was a flimsy, bent trey table, narrowly holding up some food and utensils. Fox swirled and gurgled a gulp of water from a glass that was left aside, refreshing his mouth but resisting the urge to spit it out. An off-putting taste of chemicals in the water with bubbles of stale oxygen. Perhaps the MRE left cooked and ready for him would be more appetizing. He peeled back the plastic wrapping, then hunched further into his bed, rubbing his temples. An underwhelming selection of food that was more a cheap, television dinner than a proper military ration; all nuked in a microwave hours ago, lukewarm and soggy.

He wouldn’t even call this a meal.

Fox stabbed the potato mash like a trident to clear the grit of freezer burn. How the hell could you have spaghetti without the tangy, tomato sauce, or the synthesized meat patty missing half its crunchy breading? Add that to the backlog of Sargasso's unforgivable atrocities. But the chocolate brownie was pleasant and shockingly moist. Even if Fox was stuffed full and unsatisfied, he believed there was always a second stomach reserved for dessert.

By instinct, Fox's body stretched each of his limbs in isolated control, giving every tendon, ligament, and strand of muscle fiber a range of flexible motions. Just like his Arwing after a long, arduous battle, damage assessment was crucial for maintenance and safety measures, a practice to which he had become well accustomed due to the misfortune of many past accidents.

The first bone broke with a misplaced step down a freshly polished flight of stairs at the manor - right radius. The second at boarding school from falling off his hoverbike - consequently then confiscated for illegal usage on campus grounds - left tibia. The weeks he spent after an accidental crash during a war game routine at the academy - too many broken bones to remember or learn how to pronounce.

And now within Sargasso's captivity. Luckily, somehow unscathed, beyond a slight headache and an unsatisfied growl within his belly. Fox surmised how he managed no such wounds; it was nothing short of a miracle. If Wolf had desired it, a swipe from those bladed claws could have easily torn a ligament or two. Or worse, a deep laceration or a bone fracture.

"Living on borrowed time, Junior," he muttered, the words flowing to his mouth and channeling his father. Propping his chin down, re-enacting the casual slip of those iconic sunglasses - a rare glimpse at the eclipse of torpid, pewter eyes. "But, the sand of the hourglass will keep spilling as long as you keep turning." His arm lifted; hand contorted to a mock gun - and fired. Ka-pow.

"Just don't forget to turn it over before your time is up, kiddo."

So. Yesterday? Well, that happened.

The academy's measly training in hand-to-hand combat would never have prepared him for an actual fight like this. Fox's past sparring matches were controlled, conditioned, and often played out in his favor. The cheer of his name was synonymous with the clanking of the victory gong. Yet yesterday's duel had been on a whole other level of intensity. Every punch or kick that connected did little to whittle Wolf's immense strength down. He’d felt like a scant insect attempting to upheave a beast more than twice its size. And all it took was one critical grapple and a pin to end the fight with a submission. 

Wolf was a warrior first, pilot second. Fox vowed to not let the pirate get the best of him like that again.

He’d expected shame at the outcome of the battle - perhaps even a smidgen of relief for having survived - but there was no sadness or regret, no satisfaction or happiness. It was not a matter of not wanting to feel - he utterly just couldn't. His mind, body, and soul were hollowed and wrung out to dry. Like the ringing of a church bell throughout his core, the resonant sound equally purifying as it was silencing. The emptiness was neither evil nor good - perhaps not even a force of neutrality, but somewhat of a saturating, unsettling calm that returned the mind to a state of nullity.

A blank slate. A tablet wiped clean of chalk. An open, weathered tome that once had years of experience in its ledger now ripped out, it's bindings and pages refreshed and attached back together.

The darkness of his secret had spilled in front of his foes, leaving a void as an infected abscess drained so the wound may heal. Yet the exposed wound was at risk of being corrupted once more without future care or consideration. At least now, should the wheel of fortune turn in his favor, there was the chance for light to emerge and shine. A palpable radiance to pour and wash away shadows, smoothing the jagged fragments of his past.

His ears perked to the swipe of a keycard and click of a doorknob. A woman entered from a restricted access door marked “Laboratory.” The telltale swish of her cloth scrubs that she kept loose like an open robe, along with a stethoscope that was worn more like an amulet than a medical device.

The doctor was a leucistic raven. Feathers that appeared to have once shone porcelain white had dulled into a pallid, ashen grey. Behind her glasses were eyes lidded in weary melancholy and strained with tireless work, denied the blessing of a full night's rest. But time enough for a touch of dark eyeliner and a shiny gloss to her beak that accentuated her smile.

It was a polite smile, not a joyous one. Foregoing platitudes and obligatory conduct, she emanated a presence that was diminished, yet with a singular focus. Merely wanting to be left to her own devices without the distractions of an observing audience. Yet there was an authenticity to her all the same, demure surface emotions that rippled, like gazing into crystal clear waters, transparent and tranquil.

In one hand was a clipboard ready to snap from a heap of folders and documents that she struggled to maintain her grip on. In the other was a large thermos. Fox caught a whiff of its scent: a dark roast coffee that was bitter, brewed for hours from the sludge bottom of the pot but laced with unusual flavors. He sniffed again: a thick sweetness, yet savory with a tad of molasses.

Yep. Definitely rum.

"So the sleeping prince has awakened. Onlookers might mistake you for royalty, being personally escorted by Star Wolf to my clinic." The raven plopped her pile of documents with a loud thump to the bed's side table. Moving about the bed, her feathery fingers prodded the shabby, installed monitors to see if they still functioned, then spoke in a muted voice: "You've been conked out almost a full day. I know a few people who would be envious to get that much rest without the need for a sleeping aid."

Fox snorted. "Nothing like the fear and terror from a deathmatch to doze off to."

The raven pushed her glasses up, eyes occasionally drifting shut as if she was barely staying awake. "You are indeed Fox McCloud of Star Fox, right?"

"Was there another Fox McCloud that you were expecting?"

"No. Never can be too sure who people claim to be or what face they wear - especially in this precarious part of the galaxy. Facial surgery is routinely sought after if you're attempting to dodge the feds until they can get a hold of your DNA. However, your vitals match our records, and you've managed to survive a bout with Wolf. That's proof enough for me. I would say you were lucky to be alive, but that was probably the last of your luck."

"What makes you say that?"

"I mean, you're here. In Sargasso." The doctor shrugged. "It doesn't get more unlucky than that."

Fox huffed and reclined back in his wall of pillows, offering a thumbs up. Another hapless observation noted. Why couldn't he have been kidnapped to a resort spot on Zoness instead?

The doctor pulled up a chair bedside, crossed her leg one over the other, then warmed her hands with her thermos. "I hope you don't mind that I performed an examination on you earlier as you slept. Since you fought with Wolf, I had to make sure you didn't suffer any serious injuries. All in all, everything checks out fine. Some mild irritation on your wrists and a minor bruising from a bad fall-"

"Tell me about it." Fox huffed out.

"Ahem." The doctor glared back from the interruption. "But it appeared that you fainted from heat exhaustion - and dehydration. A little bit longer with the IV and another meal in you, and I think you'll be set." She then leaned forward, assessing any residual symptoms. "There is something that concerns me. I was told that you had a bit of a panic attack during the fight. Has this been recurring?"

Fox bit his lip, the floodgates of heartache released and unbridled. "Recurring panic attacks? No. Riddled with anxiety and the crushing weight of existential pain from the dark recesses of a shitty childhood? Fighting in a nightmarish war and still dealing with the aftermath of my decisions? And then getting captured by Mr. Wolf “inferiority complex” O'Donnell, who wanted to beat the shit out of me?" Fox blathered like a train off rails, almost out of breath as the last words rolled out. He then waggled his finger. "Now that? That I got by the bulk."

The raven produced a mirthless grin. Perhaps Fox's macabre sense of humor hadn't registered the way he’d hoped. His ears flattened and he sighed, now regretting pouring out his fears to another stranger.

"To give a better answer, I think stress is just as involuntary as blinking my eyes or the beating of my heart. I feel like I came into this world with this idea that I had something to prove, but that I wasn't worthy. If my soul signed some kind of contract that detailed all the hardships I would have to go through, I imagine I instantly regretted it when I popped out of my mom." Fox scratched the back of his head, looking away. "Now it's just all out of my control. I don't know how else to describe it."

"Listen, I'm a scientist, not a therapist. If it's something you truly wish not to talk about - I won't pry. Not that I have the time to inquire further anyway." The doctor closed her eyes and puffed out air as if to admonish herself over her harsh tone. She then looked over Fox with motherly concern. "But maybe I can make an exception. Pray tell, how did you get captured in the first place?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time, I'm afraid. Though I think the Sargassians - or whatever you call them - were bound to find me eventually. I made the mistake of making a mortal enemy out of Wolf years ago. Helpful tip, doc: try not to piss off anyone that dresses and acts like an odd amalgamation of pirate, biker, and cowboy." Fox covered his left eye, impersonating Wolf's eyepatch, a barb to his words. "Freak show alert."

The raven giggled at last, dabbing her beak of spilled coffee with a handkerchief. She looked twice as radiant than before, even if she was spitting out her drink from laughter.

Breaking the ice with a mutual enemy, perhaps? "You have my condolences. Only a day or so since you've arrived, and you're already in my clinic. I think that's a new record."

Fox looked at the tag pinned to her wrinkled scrubs. The name on plastic almost faded with smoke marks or possibly burned off from a chemical reaction gone haywire. "So, Dr. Erwood, is it? You look pretty young to be a doctor. But are you a scientist or a doctor?"

"My name is Dr. Branwen Erwood. I'm older than you think, but I'll accept any compliments I can get. Avians tend to age more gracefully." Her feathers ruffled almost with pride. "And forgive me. I should have introduced myself before. I'll apologize in advance and say that my bedside manner is a bit rusty. When you're around these pirates all the time, their incivility spreads like the flu."

She then pointed to several framed diplomas on the wall, the glass display smudged with both finger and feather prints alike. "And I'm both - dual-hatted, if you will. Graduated from Cornerian Medical University with a specialty in genetic science and gene therapy. I have decades of experience under my belt, but my main profession was a researcher to further the developments and endeavors of targeted gene reconstruction and rapid cellular recovery. Being a physician now is not my specialization, but I can do a damn better stitch job than most of those quacks at any hospital."

"Don't bother explaining the science stuff. It will fly past my head faster than my Arwing." Fox laughed - and then wished he hadn't. Lungs were still sore and tender. "While we're discussing pirates, you don't really fit the motif, Dr. Erwood."

"And I don't think I ever will. I'm afraid the clichés of eye patches, drunken bouts, and love of pillaging have already been reserved for the bastard in charge of this place."

"Oh my. Just don't let Wolf hear that. He might just make you walk the plank into a black hole." Fox clapped his hands. "I'm guessing you are here by his 'invitation' as well?"

She at last turned towards him, a quizzical expression on her face. "Is that what you were told? No golden ticket for me, I'm afraid. I'm another prisoner, locked away like the rest of these poor souls. My prison cell just happens to be this clinic."

"You're being made to care for these pirates? I knew we had a shortage of doctors, but I’ve never heard of forced treatment by gunpoint."

"I'm here under unusual circumstances, so I struck a deal. I get to leave that tiny cell that reeks of urine, and in return, I trade my services for this clinic. I'll be the one to stitch a knife wound or close a blaster hole. The one to tell these knaves why whiskey is not a substitute for a balanced diet. I've seen everything from black market merchants after a transaction went violently wrong to a few scummy Cornerian politicians with heavy pockets needing to treat a scandalous infection."

"Sounds fun and all, but doesn't it bother you to aid Sargasso?" Fox raised his eyebrows. "I think what you're doing is admirable, but you're still helping the very people keeping you here."

Erwood heaved a begrudging sigh. "Honestly, I do it for the common man. The local refugees that are still displaced by the war. They are even willing to come here of all places, offering any supplies they can muster to barter for medical attention. It's risky to be here, but they have no other alternative."

The raven was silent a moment before she resumed speaking. Her tone was serious but considerably calm. "Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if my services are too incompetent for this place. No one heeds my advice. Every scarred, sutured wound just reopened from a subsequent fight or another stomach pumped from a binge or a bender. My little clinic cannot protect them from what awaits them as soon as they step outside these walls. Where are they to go but back into this squalor and bedlam of a lifestyle."

The pilot's eyes flickered down, cheeks burning. The real cost of failure never belonged to himself, but a byproduct of what it meant to those civilians he vowed to protect. Every stalled second, calculating a crucial decision or costly mistake could mean that another may suffer from his blunder. It is a spreading chain reaction like a rumbling, ruinous earthquake, aftereffects instantaneous and unknown, yet to be revealed. The soldier's oath was a foolish one. An inexorable fantasy that all could be protected and unharmed, but the blame unerringly hissed in the air like a seeking missile, finding its way to blast in Fox's face regardless. 

And perhaps if he finished the war sooner, there would be more refugees at a permanent home with their families, and not pleading at the doorstep of a pirate stronghold for treatment.

"Sorry to be such a mood killer and bring this up. If it's any consolation, I know I'm grateful you're here, at least," Fox said with a slight crack in his voice. "Let's change the subject. You seem to know a little bit about our captor. What do you really think about Wolf?"

At first, her expression gleamed, pleased to talk about the prospect of something more pleasant, and then sunk again at the new topic. Her eyes then rotated in slow motion clockwise with a fixed look of concentration. The ungreased cogs in her mind cranking how to best answer.

"Brilliant. Passionate. A man who knows how to channel every part of his being to get a job done, whether he does the heavy lifting or has someone else do it for him. That kind of drive and vision is what allowed him to build this floating fortress to begin with. But that same drive is also what makes him dangerous. Most people silently express a threat or chiding when someone wrongs them. Not Wolf. He will commit almost fanatically to right a wrong or prove a point. Were he not the scummy criminal bastard he is, he might have been a great asset to a just cause."

"A just cause, huh?" Fox scrunched his face, sticking out his tongue. He then toyed with the IV protruding from his arm. "Wolf is light-years away from personable. He acts more like a thug than a leader. I’ve seen how he adjusts his demeanor around people like he's playing a role just to learn what information he needs from someone so he can later tear them apart."

Erwood then smacked Fox's hand that fidgeted with his IV before continuing. "Maybe not to our standards, though Wolf is extraordinarily selfish. He often cares little for the plight of the common man and refuses to understand others' weakness or emotion. Or perhaps he understands those things well enough to exploit them. Just my opinion, but behind all his brilliance is a man so hell-bent towards his goal that he is willing to sacrifice everything and everyone to achieve it - even the men who believe in him."

"What is Wolf's goal exactly, besides trying to get revenge towards me?" Fox furrowed his brows only to release them. "Since the war, he spent all this time building his forces - more like an army - and for what? That concerns me."

The doctor uncrossed and crossed her legs once more. She opened her beak and promptly closed it, an impulse of privacy that wished to be respected. The hair on Fox's hands stood up, wary. Did she know something more about Sargasso's motives?

Her glasses then hit the light at just the right angle, obscuring her eyes with a dazzling shine. "Speaking of Wolf, he caused me quite the fright yesterday evening. Running into an unexpected guest that imposing and sinister in the middle of the night will do that to you. I walked out from my lab and onto the clinic floor, and there he was, just standing over your bed with his arms crossed like the grim reaper. Talking to himself. Talking to you."

"Really?" Fox felt a dullness in his chest, but his gaze was focused. Wolf had bothered to show up? "Did you hear any of what he said?"

"I wish I did. I was less concerned with what was said, but more with what he _might_ have done. I wasn't sure if he was going to fluff your pillows, or simply smother you with one." The raven rubbed her brows, almost at a loss for words. "And then after what seemed like an hour, Wolf was voiceless and immobile as a statue at a wax museum, he finally just handed me this." She reached into her white scrubs and handed a small bag to him.

"What is it?" Fox opened the bag and grabbed a small bottle. It jangled and rolled in his hands, now tightly packed and filled to the brim. "My medication?" A single pulse of mellow reassurance ran through him along with a twinkle in his eyes. One less worry he could extract from a leaning tower of concerns ready to collapse.

"Wolf asked me to 'handle' your recovery, so I took the liberty of filling it. It's not quite the exact prescription you had before, but it should treat the same symptoms. Take one pill twice a day and drink plenty of water with your dosage. Also, just make sure you hide it well or the, ugh, _Wolf Pack,_ " she mockingly gestured with her fingers, "will most likely mug it off you and sell it to the markets at LowSector."

Fox cocked his head. Knowing that dastardly pirate played a part in having Fox's stock replenished invoked more restlessness than it did gratitude. Why would his nemesis even bother to assist him now after kidnapping him solely with the intent to fight, let alone intervening to aid him during a traumatic event? The cards had played out to Wolf's advantage, allowing him to finish the fight with a single, decisive crunch of his fangs. Yet that nefarious sense of pride of his was somehow capable of yielding. Did Wolf faithfully mean what he said about fighting on fair terms?

The drastic shift in personality was far too sudden to comprehend its validity. That modicum of worry that creased Wolf's expression, the woeful gaze at his trembling claws as if haunted by phantasms of the past. Fox was loathe to admit it; it was surreal as it was genuine, though brief. And if it was an act, then it was an award-winning performance and deserving of a standing ovation. Those dripping, bloody knuckles said otherwise.

Fox felt Wolf's hand on his chest once more. Robust and flexible, yet dangerous all the same. A mere grasp of those razor claws could have dug out his very heart. Warmth bled through the lupine's treacherous palm and fingertips, spreading heat throughout his grief stricken body, melting the chills of his terror. He couldn't recall the last time he was able to generate that amount of heat alone and unassisted. If the pirate's hands were so sympathetically warm, was the rest of his body capable of just the same?

One-eyed bastard. Hayseed layabout. Apple-knocking, rum licking, good-for-nothing bumpkin.

Fox’s grip tightened on the bottle. "He asked you to do this? You mean _the_ Wolf O'Donnell? Not just some random scoundrel also conveniently missing an eye?"

"The one and only. I was just as shocked as you were. He's usually so patronizing and standoffish when he talks to me, but yesterday he was quiet, avoidant, and… guilty. Most likely unintentional. If only you heard the argument outside when Panther came in to drop off something in the lab." Erwood then winced as if from second-hand embarrassment. "I'll spare you the details and say that Wolf was furious to not have been made aware of your condition before your fight and chewed his ass out."

Visualizing Panther shrinking and unable to mutter a word to a snarling Wolf was a well-deserved consolation. Petty, yes, but Fox would be lying if he said it felt anything less than satisfying. He'd take that any day over the tasty brownie.

He smiled and promptly swigged down a dosage, then placed away the prize in the gown's front pocket. Now to wait for the cloying, chemical release to clear away the mind fog, hoping to feel any emotion beyond just fair and mute. "Thank you, Dr. Erwood. I really appreciate your help in taking care of me. I seem to be pretty shitty at doing that for myself."

"You can thank me by staying put for now and not pursuing a rematch with Wolf." A warning crept into her tone as she spoke. "Don't perpetuate this cycle of violence and rivalry any longer. It goes without saying, but I do not envy you, Fox McCloud. Your chosen profession is bound to bring you back to a doctor's supervision one way or another. Or simply a morgue."

Crestfallen, she pushed her head feathers back. "I realize that didn't quite come across the way I intended." Catching herself, Erwood yanked out as much optimism as she could. "What I meant to say is that perhaps you're out of your league here - and I mean that in the nicest way possible. If you play into this game - a trap - that Wolf has laid out for you, it could be your last."

Fox gave a curt nod, voice stable. "I don't disagree, but I'm kind of stuck here until Wolf is willing to let me go. The fight didn't necessarily go as planned for either one of us. I'm not sure what's to come next after a stalemate or however you want to call it, but there's got to be some way of escaping out of this dump."

Erwood glanced far off and fidgeted with her nametag. "Yes. Escaping."

"What is this frivolous talk about escaping?" A voice slithered from down the hall.

Both pilot and doctor jumped in their skin, the sound hit as a deadeye shot to the back of their skulls. Practically floating on air, Leon Powalski strolled into the clinic with nimble tiptoeing, light and weightless like a ballet dancer over water. He riffled about the room, absentminded yet curious, examining bins of the medical supplies. At last, he stopped at the end of the bed, caressing the metal frame with both hands.

"Is it only you with us, my kit?" The chameleon's left eye began to move independently from the right - which remained locked on Fox. The free eye scanned the room, ignoring the vulpine's attempt to shelter his muzzle underneath his blanket and the raven's hesitant, but vigilant glare, ready to safeguard her patient by any means necessary. The left eye snapped back into place. "Mayhap, a certain falcon will be joining us later?"

"You mean Falco?" Fox raised an eyebrow and lowered his sheets. "Sorry, I guess he didn't get the invite. It's probably for the best. Between you and me? He's kind of a killjoy at parties unless you enjoy it when other people monopolize the conversation." 

The sinking frown did not match the equanimity of Leon's voice. "Such a disappointment. I just wanted the two of us to have some quality time to get better… acquainted. Pose the question if he'd be willing to let me pluck a couple of quills for my collection."

"A collection, Leon? Or more like a shrine?"

"Perhaps more like a tribute." Leon winked. "A dear friend being tortured would have been a great motivator for you to fight, wouldn't you agree? Alas, I suppose I'll have to fall back on more banal methods. Conversations are just so superfluous when you can merely stab what you want out of a person."

Erwood huddled to Fox's level, whispering as inconspicuous as she could. "You're on a first-name basis with the torturer?"

Fox's eyes blew wide open as if a hammer dropped upon his head, shattering his obliviousness. The resident torturer of Sargasso was none other than the aberrant, crazed chameleon himself. Red's frantic regaling of the torturer's deeds ran through his mind, detailing the destructive cruelty of one incapable of empathy or pity to its victims. And most of all, Fox had a first-hand evaluation of their most exceptional work up close, the komodo monitor's once mighty form now maimed to shambles with debilitated flesh.

"Oh. So the title really did have a literal connotation." Fox whimpered. "Well, that's fucking fantastic."

"So you _do_ know him." Her voice was tense and timid. "Perhaps that's why you've avoided a worse fate so far." 

"We're not exactly besties since I had to fight him along with Wolf years ago. Maybe I won the VIP package here. Full time stay, just no mandatory torture time."

Leon hummed and leaned into the conversation with a knowing smirk. Both doctor and pilot playoff being caught in the moment with a contrived smile of their own, full and shaking.

The chameleon chuckled, remarkably bubbly. "I'll answer the question on both your minds. Wolf wanted to speak with you, Fox. He was waiting for you to get better, but now that I see you spry, awake, and full of vitality, I'm sure he won't mind if I borrow you for a little while." His cheer then flatlined with his pinched mouth. "Since yesterday, I've had a spell of dubiousness that I wish to clear up that can only be resolved with a tête-à-tête. A heart-to-heart conversation."

Fox gulped, fighting back an eye roll. Hard to have a conversation from the heart if the monster even possessed one to begin with. And if the chameleon did, it was most likely corrupted black from ruthless sadism, a smoky lodestone capable only of diffusing malice. He would be a fool to place credence in the chameleon's trivialization that these questions would be anything less than a pitiless interrogation. The only conversation that would be had was to be with blades rather than trifling words.

What kind of torture chamber did this lunatic run? Tied down to a stake, limbs pulled apart and quartered by ropes. Sizzling pokers impaling his sides, spike tips glowing with embers as if infused by lava. Or perhaps shoved and trapped inside an iron maiden, its confinement embedded with thorns and spikes, ready to chomp down like a Venus flytrap.

With several spastic tilts of his head, a silent cry stuck in Fox's throat as he beseeched the doctor's aid.

"Mr. Powalski, sir," Erwood stood and crept up to the chameleon, her clipboard close to her heart. "Fox is still in recovery and needs additional rest. I cannot release him to you before then-"

"Don't!" Leon shrieked as his hands jerked downward to the dagger strapped to his thigh. A reflex in caution. "Don't call me Mr. or Sir again. _Please_. Just Leon will do."

A pained look wrinkled the raven's face as if the reprimand slapped her with the crack of a whip. "I… I apologize. I wasn't aware that you had a preference. It won't happen again."

"See that it won't. I am merely a tool for my master's will. Titles or honorifics are not necessary. Besides, don't you have other more pressing matters to attend?" Leon stomped his heel and pointed toward the laboratory entrance. "Your progress lately has been more than lacking; it's virtually diabolical. Wolf will be expecting results and - if I must - I'll be the one enforcing the discipline that you're sorely lacking."

"I have been making significant progress to the project, but it's just that Fox had awoken and needed my assistance. And-" Erwood paused as Leon brushed past her to stand bedside. The perplexed Fox slid back for every inch Leon stood closer. She then stuttered. "What exactly are you doing?"

The chameleon cupped his elbow with one hand and tapped his cheek, meddlesome eyes observing the skittering patient in bed. His scaled hands held down Fox's wrist, the other creeping fingernails up the pilot's forearm like an inchworm, landing precisely where the IV was dug inside.

"Hold still for a moment." In the blink of an eye, Leon then yanked the IV out as one would pull back an old-fashioned lawnmower cord.

"Ow! What the fuck?!" Fox yelped in throbbing pain, gripping his bedsheets so tight that his claws ripped the fabric. His vein almost burst open as the catheter viciously snaked out from his arm. Flashing his fangs, Fox held the entry spot on his arm to block the bleeding. "Give a guy a warning next time you do that!"

"Tut, tut. Out of bed with you now." Leon tossed on the bed a piece of gauze and tape from the counter. "Bandage yourself up, will you? It's impolite to leave a mess." 

"Damn it. Do I really need to do this right now? Can you give me a second to change back to my uniform?" Fox grumbled several profanities as he stood up, his tremulous legs shuffling across the cold shock of bare feet to the floor. Erwood motioned his way to steady himself as she dressed his wound in place. "Where are my clothes, anyway?"

She traded him a sheepish frown. "I'm afraid your uniform is in the wash."

"I'm not leaving looking like this!" Fox wagged his tail with vexation, his spine and lower half now crisp and chill with the blast of air conditioning. "I'm a mercenary; I don't advertise my goods or services for free."

"That's quite alright. You can give our men a good show of your assets. Let them have something worth fighting for, won't you?" Leon bent forward with a hand over his coy expression, peeking over Fox's shoulder for a thorough inspection of the vulpine backside. "Ugh." and then cringed to the point his eyes squinted shut. Examination apparently failed his standards. "Your, uh, _leveled_ posterior might inspire a paltry second of gallantry."

"Oh, come on!" Fox's tail shot upright, borderline mortified. "First, you rip out my IV, and now you try to belittle me. It's not that flat! I've been doing plenty of squats!" He shuffled back, attempting to clamp the back of his gown along with his modesty together. "I know I'm skinny, but don't bring my booty into this. Anyhow, do you know how hard it is for me to put on weight?"

"Not everyone can be blessed in all facets of life, McCloud. Perfection, as they say, is often unattainable and a venture unworthy of your time." Leon smiled, his hand now anchored to his hip. "Besides, if you're looking for perfection, you need not look further." The chameleon twirled in place and arched his back, showcasing his almost voluptuous figure trapped in the leather bodysuit that stuck to his skin. A quick shimmy protruded his ample buttocks and then stepped out of the clinic, giggling down the halls.

"Come along to my quarters, McCloud!" Leon's exhilarated voice echoed. "We don't have much time before Wolf finds out you're missing, and there are so many things I wish to pick your darling, little brain on!"

"Hold on just a moment." The doctor walked over with a few clothespins, clipping them into place in Fox's gown. "Take care to remember what I said, and make sure you continue your medication. Just stay frosty and alert with Leon. Play along and do what he wants - it's not worth fighting back, unless you're in grave danger." 

"Thanks for your help, doc. If I can, I'll be back to thank you properly. Say a prayer for me as I dance with the devil." Fox offered a wave goodbye as he bounced out the door.

"Don't bother." Erwood crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. She watched as Fox chased Leon down as the last pin came undone from the gust of his running. Then she muttered under her breath: "I have a feeling you'll be back soon enough."

As Fox stepped out to the hall, he caught a glimpse of the doctor's desk in her lab. Among the beakers of chemicals and microscopes was a magnificent bouquet of flowers floating in a crystal pitcher. The delicate, watery aromatics of freshly cut red roses briefly caught his nose, transporting his mind back to his mother's garden.

And a single strand of ebony fur rested on one of its crimson petals.

* * *

"So this is UpperSector, where Star Wolf and the elites reside?" Fox grabbed his cheeks as his fingers slid downward - nearly stunned. "This is incredible! I feel like my net worth just doubled by standing here. It's almost as if I am in an entirely different space station altogether."

"It's adequate," Leon said with a yawn, walking side by side with Fox. "A bit excessive for my tastes. Personally, my kitten associate should stick with his day job. An interior decorator, he is not."

Fox's feet combed upon the regal carpets without a smudge of dirt or strand out of place. Satin drapes and tapestries embellished every space-faring window. Air fresh and filtered like a warm sea breeze from a Zoness island that hugged the body. It was as if every air conditioner had been infused with essential oils, sighing the aromas of amber wood and bergamot, noses devouring the taste of opulence.

Every several feet down the luxurious halls were adorned with a burnished marble statue or oil fresco painting. Glass containers upon banisters showcased trophies of armor and weapons collections to the prized hunts of monstrous creatures. Disembodied heads and mandibles preserved mid-attack, like a hunter's hall exclaiming their bounties to their peers. Fox was afraid to bump into anything - a mere touch could depreciate its value, like fine art exposed to impetuous hands in a museum. Speaking of an exhibit, he wouldn't be shocked if most of these pieces were, in fact, robbed from one.

The layout of this particular floor had an uncanny resemblance to a Cornerian dreadnought vessel Fox once completed a cursory tour. In fact, even the color scheme of royal blue and champagne on the walls were exactly alike. The CCD Mortainais - a juggernaut of a ship more than half-mile long - once an example of the might of the Cornerian fleet. It had the capacity to hold hundreds of separate laser cannons, and its main gun's nuclear battery had the force of multiple atomic bombs. Unfortunately, the legendary vessel never made it back to Cornerian air space. Its destruction was due by an ambush of a fleet of enemy carriers years ago: Venom's first declaration of war. 

Fox looked on ahead at his companion's strut, studying how effortlessly the chameleon walked in six-inch heels. But the clack of Leon's heel was the only sound that muffled back, somehow in tune and rhythm to his own steps.

"Are you matching my footsteps?" Fox frowned. "It's kind of freaking me out."

"My apologies, force of habit." Leon raised a single leg staccato in the air for a moment before resuming his stride, like a musician off-beat continuing his song. "Being an assassin, you learn various tricks of the trade, like how to conceal your steps from your prey. They can't suspect what they cannot hear - let alone see. Reading your foe is essential to staying alive. Don't pick targets you cannot efficiently kill with one strike."

Fox nodded, neck suddenly unsteady. The past few days had been a test of enduring wills and fleeting sanity. Normalcy was now strolling down with no pants or undergarments in a pirate stronghold, along with a member of Star Wolf, who was less a pilot than he was a cold-blooded murderer. Quite the resume. And here Fox believed that Wolf was the most outlandish person he'd ever met.

"If the hero thing doesn't work out, I'll come to you for lessons, Leon."

"You would require lessons in the art of assassination? From me? That's amusing." Leon squinted from the force of his feral grin. "If anything, I'd have figured you could teach me a few tricks of the trade."

Fox leered. The chameleon's suggestion leading down a road where he'd prefer not to travel. "And just how many people have you murdered, you monster?"

"Honestly, I've lost count. But between us _killers_ and our previous exploits, I'd say our numbers are quite even, wouldn't you agree?" Leon hissed as his tongue rattled. "With a bit of coaxing, you could be the perfect candidate to our coveted vacant 4th roster."

Fox had no clue why he even bothered to entertain such a ludicrous comment. Him? Working with Star Wolf? There was no way his resigned attitude could pull off one of Wolf’s gaudy outfits of a spiked collar, combat boots, to his very own eyepatch. More a Halloween costume without an inkling of credibility, half expecting having hard candies tossed his way. Why now did Fox suddenly hear a choir of mocking laughter?

With fetching reluctance, Fox admitted to himself that there were strategic advantages to standing in the pirate lord's good graces as opposed to being his mortal enemy. A sense of sick, twisted safety knowing that one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy could provide protection and providence, even if that ally were as rotten and heinous as Wolf O'Donnell. If the two of them could unite their efforts and talents, rather than strike at odds with one another, the potential was limitless. Maybe the doctor's words weren't ill-advised after all.

Any chance of a truce or allegiance was quelled by their endless contention and past adverse history. Mollification of such hateful ties was nothing but a pipe dream to an opponent who wished his demise over all else. In any case, Fox would never trade the shackles of fame for a spotlight of infamy, especially not so soon after nearly surrendering his cause before the duel. But he was tired of the fighting, the sounds of rumbling combat still ringing in his ears. If there was some possibility to end a feud amicably beyond trading fists - he might just consider it.

Just play along for now with the chameleon. Don't fight or question crazy. Trying to reason with the skipping, mad man before him would be like introducing logic and reason to the bickering Cornerian Senate floor. You can't force someone to understand what they aren't capable - or willing - to do. 

Though there was one niggling question that imposed upon him to speak.

"Leon. Back at the meeting room where I met Wolf the other day, you did something to me, didn't you?" Fox waited for a reply, but the chameleon continued on ahead, unaffected. "I started to have visions about the last time I had fought Star Wolf during the war. And you were there with me - almost narrating the whole bizarre event altogether. You spoke as if me being here had meaning."

Leon stopped and turned to Fox, presenting an impish curl of a smile that never quite reached his cheeks. He parted his mouth open almost ready to spill every morsel of secrets within him and then - "I don't know what you're talking about." The chameleon then continued onwards - flitting away - giggling.

"What?! Don't lie to me!" Fox shouted back, starting up a jog to catch up. Hands ruffling about to push down his gown that ballooned with rising air. "Hey! Wait!"

"Fox McCloud, Fox McCloud." Singing, Leon repeated his name in various voices and intonations as he skipped along. He smacked his jowls as if he were tasting the words. "Clearly your bout of fear has made you a bit delirious - maybe even a tad bit insane. That title is reserved for myself and myself only."

As the pair turned a corner, Fox's counter of questions evaporated as his mouth fell open. Two burly men, stacked with corded bands for muscles, stood idle at attention at the door. Their faces enshrouded in dark leather masks, mouths zippered shut, with only their cloudy, distant eyes exposed. Little was left to the imagination of leather harnesses and straps that wrapped their bodies, along with an ostentatiously placed thong, barely containing its staggering contents. Leather creaked with every movement the two men made, as their strained, blistered muscles fought back against their confinements.

Due to their facial concealment, Fox was unsure of their species. Judging from their tails that drooped between their legs, one was most likely a canine, perhaps a shepherd? The other feline, though his tail's color and shape alone was indiscernible for making an educated guess in species.

Fox shook his head to dispel focus off the men's muscled physique. His eyes looped between gazing at their broad pectorals and their wide quadriceps. Perhaps his gaze did dip below the waist - maybe just once or twice.

He felt his skin bake with heat. The pilot was under the impression he was headed to Leon’s quarters, not somehow making his way to the red light district of downtown Cornerian City. 

Leon caught Fox's wandering eyes. "You are curious about my company, yes? I'm sure they are to your liking, judging from your shameless surveyance of Wolf yesterday."

Repressing a sigh, Fox covered his face with his hands, parting his fingers for an eye to peek through. "It was that obvious, huh?"

"It appears we share similar tastes. Perhaps we can discuss that topic to a greater extent a bit later. Being a leader of men can be quite tiresome and lonely, so I have sought out those from our troops who managed to catch my eye. They serve all my needs and outlets for desire. And sometimes, aggression." Leon stood between both men, showcasing his prime, rugged stock like an auctioneer selling a vicious animal. "Why don't I introduce you to them?"

"This one is a new replacement." The chameleon's hands moved up each of the apparent canine's thighs, lingering fingers drawing half circles around the man's broad waist. The canine squinted, flinching with muffled cries of displeasure under his mask as if expecting a curt display of discipline in a moment's notice. As soon as Leon's touch left him, he panted in hoarse relief, hysteria now sated.

"See? New. He'll learn."

And the man glared back with slits for eyes, with learned obedience - and scorn.

"Now, this one? This one is my favorite." Leon made his way to the feline and then thwacked away with a harsh spanking to his rear. The man seemed immune to Leon's unabashed groping. Instead, he flung back, eyes floating in ecstasy at his master's deviant attentiveness.

"Fiery he once was. Resisted every lesson and training I could manage and attempted to fight back on occasion. Caught me by surprise, he did. Yet, with enough solicitous coaxing, he finally submitted to my will. Now he's simply eager. He can endure so much before he screams. And when he finally does, it never fails to give me shivers."

Fox watched with shameful interest and disbelief, prodding his fingers together. He genuinely thought he had seen everything thanks to the extranet's extensive (and often explicit) search engine. Witnessing such brazen hedonism in person almost made him retch, but his intrigue was far too overpowering, goading him to seek more. Guilt stuffed with fascination did little to stop the fluttering in his gut.

"Leon, you said one of them was a replacement. What happened with the other one?"

Leon abruptly stopped in his tracks. "Oh. He _broke_." His tone now icy sharp as his knuckles wedged into the feline's chest. "I don't care for things that can't be fixed."

"… Right." Fox swallowed back a lump. "Do your _friends_ have a name? I'd feel uncomfortable simply calling them Thing One and Thing Two."

"No, McCloud." Leon stroked the feline's shoulders, now purring like a powered-up engine at his master's touch. "They have no names, for their identity and purpose are now intertwined. They are here not to just serve me but also attend and maintain my quarters. While I am away, they stand out front to greet my guests when they arrive."

"They certainly look intimidating enough. I thought they were your bodyguards."

Leon produced a condescending huff. "My dear, I have no need for protection. I assure you, I can manage on my own. If any of my enemies did have the gall to challenge me here, my attendants would treat them just like any other guest."

"Ahem." Leon cleared his throat with a hoarseness Fox did not expect the chameleon capable of. Both bound men rushed to the front of their master's quarters. They got on their knees and bowed low to the floor, their foreheads settling on the carpet. Leon flicked a dainty wrist in Fox's direction, a silent request - more likely a demand - for the pilot's hand to guide his footing up, as if he were to cross a murky puddle of a crumbling roadside.

"What would they say to your enemies then?" Fox said as he assisted Leon atop the men's backs.

Sauntering up his stairs of obedient flesh, the chameleon climbed with all the time of day. With every step, Leon sunk and twisted the heels of his stilettos, savoring each squirm and groan of pain elicited. From the entrance of his quarters, Leon turned to Fox, then curtsied with his hands clutched upon invisible drapes. His scaled cheeks puffed as if he held back a horde of maddening laughter.

"What else? ‘Welcome.’”

* * *

The homely dining chair was more form than function. Fox could not remember when his spine had been so appropriately upright, or how sore the back of his knees and elbows had been against its coarse cherry oak frame. On the other end of the small dining table awaited Leon, engrossed with commanding his attendants through a long list of orders - with the occasional keen threat slipped in for motivation. Despite his curt tone, the chameleon swung his arms as if he conducted an orchestra of instruments, seemingly quite pleased.

Leon's quarters were lavish with whimsy. Steaming on full blast was a humidifier, jutting ozone as a tireless train burned fuel. Frankincense suffused the air from the smoke of lit incense sticks, each smoldering at a different height. The flames beat and pulsed in their own heartbeats. Vines of ivy and wisteria decorated the walls, immersed under ultraviolet lights, falling like waterfalls in suspension. Scattered on the ceiling were colorful paper lanterns, dappled motes of light like stars in the night sky.

On the other side of the room stood a labyrinth of musty bookshelves stacked with tomes of various subjects, from philosophy to astronomy to the occult. Additional shelves hosted a plethora of odd baubles and curiosities, such as sculptures of insects or historical relics from ancient Lylat civilizations. Canisters and jars of herbs, ready to be milled by mortar and pestle into a salve, or wrapped in a poultice - or to coat a blade with lethal poisons. Fox felt as if he stepped into an old antique shop or rather a soothsayer's hut in a deep swamp, simmering concoctions of spells in her bubbling cauldron.

Suddenly, a mysterious gust of pungent odor pulled Fox's nose sharp like a fishing lure, and he choked back a gag. Faint and noxious, yet indecipherable, sporadically rising upward and sitting heavy from an unknown location in the room. Yet, the air returned to its smoky, mystic tones—the scent disappearing as quickly as it came.

Leon's servants began to arrange the table, laying out dainty plates and expensive tea china with floral ornamentations. Fox couldn't help but wheeze out a few snickers from watching nearly nude, muscle-bound men passing out delicate confectioneries and platters of pastries. He eyed over the bounty of sweets, rubbing his hands together as the tip of his tongue escaped his lips. Plates of pumpkin cream scones, bite-sized cheesecakes topped with a dollop of jam, but the fruit-filled tea cookies (on quick glance, maybe raspberry or strawberry) made his mouth water like a gushing fountain.

"Leon, I have to admit," Fox took a bite of the cookie, mouth full. Cranberry with citrus? Some kind of wine or a port. No, maybe more of a lemon. "This was not at all what I was expecting. Your room is quite nice, actually. Oddly relaxing."

"What _were_ you expecting?" Leon said, arching his back forward in his seat.

The pilot swallowed the rest in one bite, heartbeat racing. "W-well, about that, let me explain-"

"No need for deceit. I am not oblivious to my own reputation for derangement, and I would be a fool to think otherwise. No point in dwelling on it, for I cannot control others’ opinions, just my own." Leon then laughed in a devilish tone. "I probably _could_ control their opinions with a firm swat of a paddle, but I digress."

Fox jutted back as the feline servant presented a bamboo box in front of him. A myriad of scents emitted from inside, but they were difficult to discern due to the stout incense in the air. The tendons on his neck stuck out, pulsing in fear. This convivial display of a chat had been nothing but a ruse to catch him off guard. What torture devices could possibly be inside? Pliers to extract his teeth out, one by one? Or just a six-chamber revolver to be finished off in one shot - should he be so lucky.

"Now then," Leon announced with a wildness in his eyes. The feline slowly opened the box with Fox observing intently and sweating. "Green or black?"

Fox choked back a gasp. "Excuse me, what?"

"I have quite the selection of exotic teas - I'm sure there will be one to your liking. Feeling a bit health conscious? Try green. If you need a bit more luster in your coat, have a white. Or if you're riddled with fatigue, maybe a good black tea to perk you up."

Oh. It really was just tea. Fox felt the tips of his ears burn. Why was his brain wired to assume the worst-case scenario every single time? Addicted to anxiety for so long that even his delusions almost seemed rational occasionally.

Exhaling from his mouth, Fox felt the stress disperse bit by bit from his soul. He looked over the dozens of tiny bronze tins on display, each one labeled and color-coded with the appropriate type of tea along with a description of various health benefits. No name or flavor stood out as recognizable, exotic tastes overwhelming the novelty for a fledgling adventurer. Though he couldn't help but wonder which splendid, lethal powders on the shelves would be spiked into his drink.

"Could I have a peppermint tea? It's one of my favorites. A little sugar, if you have it."

"You didn't even look properly, did you? I said a _tea_ , not a mere herb!" Leon's eyes bulged outward, spinning in irritation like the whirl of a hypnotic swirl. "Do you honestly believe I would indulge in such a common selection?"

"Uh, no?" Fox wriggled his hands, perplexed as to how such a request could escalate to anger so quickly. "I didn't know there was a difference. I always had herbal teas growing up and-"

"Of course there's a difference!" the chameleon shouted, unexpectedly irate. "Do you know the required lengths it takes to grow such fine assortments? The temperatures for cultivation? The peak humidity? The exact timing to climb and labor to the highest of branches to ensure the finest harvest?"

Fox just nodded away like a jackhammer, not willing to engage in a futile battle over a drink. Looking back to the tins, one name stood out that sparked his curiosity. "Well, um, how about the Monkey-Picked… Oh-long? Oolong? Did I say it right?"

Leon's tail whipped out the tin can and flung it upon the table. Unerringly swift, similar to how Slippy could lash out with his tongue to snack on a buzzing gnat. The tin somehow landed upright, softly and quietly upon the table cloth. "Much better." Leon smiled. His mood stabilized.

The feline sifted the tea leaves in a strainer, hot water pouring into a cup for Fox from a simmering electric kettle. Fox blew away the steam with several long puffs and took a sip. Earthy, yet bold flavors, somehow elegant and wholesome all the same. Almost as if orchid petals had been melted down into a liquid gold form, brewing with rocks of beet sugar. If it was poisoned, it was at least a damn tasty poison.

Leon took a gratingly loud slurp of his drink, then sighed in relaxation. "A cup of tea is a delightful paradox. The act of steeping in itself is quite simple, but mastering the complexities of flavor is another matter entirely. Someone had to think to put the leaves in boiling water and then drink it. Understanding that the act of breaking down the cells with fire could lead to the discovery of infusing flavor and life all into one cup. Ah, the wonders of rudimentary alchemy."

"Do you typically have a tea party with your prisoners?" Fox said, patting his lips from the hot tea. "What's next? A luxury spa vacation? A hand and foot massage?" His eyes sidewinded between both leather-clad men, fingers tingling. "Maybe from those two?"

The chameleon took another sip, pinky appropriately out. "In some ancient cultures, supplicants are often lavished upon before their imminent sacrifice."

Fox pinched his mouth and glared. Just let him cherish the simpler things in life, like his tea and cookies, damn it. He couldn't bring himself to respond - or acknowledge - such a statement.

"You are Wolf's prisoner, not mine, and he has insured your safety at the moment. My curiosity got the better of me; I wanted to meet face to face with the one soul who had instilled such unbridled wrath within Wolf, the one worthy to be his arch-nemesis. And if you were my prisoner, we would not be having a conversation. Words mean little from hunter to prey."

"You haven't come to ridicule me for what happened yesterday?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I found it to be a particularly fascinating turn of events. I don't think anyone could have predicted that outcome." Leon plopped a lump of sugar into his drink. "Wolf, however - to put it mildly - is quite disgruntled. I had to calm him down considerably afterward. So I took it upon myself to act as mediator."

"Why couldn't you have acted as mediator sooner?" Fox huffed. "Fighting just to preserve one's ego from a grudge isn't just sad, it's pathetic."

"Do you not know how privileged you are, Fox McCloud? To see that side of Wolf in combat? To be chosen as his prey? Oh, how I long for the day that he would deign to look at me that way." Leon's hands suddenly disappeared underneath the table. His neck extended to the side, a moan escaped from his quivering lips. "And to fight him and survive? What an honor he has given you, the chance to see his most sublime and primal state once more on the battlefield."

"Uh, well, I'm glad you're satisfied." The vulpine cringed, wondering precisely what his adversary's hands were doing. "But then, what about Wolf? He's mad that he had to call off the fight?"

"A part of him is upset that you didn't fight back extensively or wish to preserve your honor. To hoist a white flag so early was just one of many transgressions. You would be disappointed if you had been anticipating something for so very long, only for it to backfire at the last moment. Nevertheless, there is something else that torments him more."

Leon brought a finger to his own lips. "Hm. How do I put this, without the intent being misconstrued." His eyes narrowed with intensity. "I believe Wolf is angrier with himself. Angry that he was unable to perceive the demons you face. And you still managed to defeat him in the war, despite those demons."

"You're suggesting Wolf is questioning his own faults as much as mine." Fox rubbed his arms, his appetite replaced with a heaviness in his stomach. "Either way, he shouldn't be that mad. He called off the fight, but he might as well have won. How things went… I had no chance against him." 

"A pyrrhic victory. One that he would not be satisfied with. He wants a rematch, but not until you're truly ready to face him again. Despite how the events have developed, I should be thanking you, McCloud." Leon's chuckle ceased, if only slightly. "Do you like Sargasso? It's quite magnificent, really."

Fox smirked. "It's definitely something alright. Excellent customer service with a smile, and a first-rate prison floor to sleep on. All the amenities have been just so accommodating; how did I not stop and visit before?"

"As you should have, for it's all thanks to you."

"Excuse me?" Fox reached for his teacup. "You might have to explain that. What did I have to do with Sargasso?” 

"Had you not defeated Wolf during the war, humiliating him - reducing him to desperately plead for his life from Andross - Wolf probably would have never had the motivation to establish his own territory. Sargasso would have never been built, had it not been for you." Leon sneered with a bark of laughter. "So, please, stay as long as you like. He can only benefit from your presence. Maybe I can convince him to provide you with better living quarters - if you behave."

Fox swallowed. The tea had met his lips, yet his mouth was still arid. He then laughed with a frown, shunning the source of another preposterous assessment. If Fox really was a source of excruciating inspiration, then he should at least get some founder's credits and a cut of Sargasso's profits. He could already visualize Wolf's face twist with rage at the ridiculousness of such a bold request.

"I said this yesterday, and I'll say this once again; I have no resentment toward Wolf or any of you. I'm not going to play along with this circle jerk for his personal glory. Wolf built this whole place out of spite with that immense chip off his shoulder? Good for him. I don't care if he hates me, but I am not going to give him what he wants."

"Fair enough. Just something to consider."

Fox suppressed a breath as Leon's cup fell like a heavy stone onto the table. Leon's eyes dimmed, his gaze locked onto Fox's expression without a hint of warmth. "But now to begin with the real reason why I brought you here,” the chameleon sneered. “There are three questions I wish to ask you."

An internal chill itched at Fox's spine. The mood of the room shifted to something ominous.

It was as if his chair was that of the defendant in a courtroom, awaiting the crucial cross-examination that would determine his sentence. He could hear murmurs from an unknown jury of ghostly witnesses, condemnations and cat-calling of past and future foes on the audience floor. And Leon acted as judge and executioner alike. A tic of muscle jumped from his cheek to his brow. He was waiting for one final testimony before reaching a verdict; that was if judgment hadn't been gaveled down already.

"My first question to you, McCloud." Leon stirred his teacup, the spoon clinking fine ceramic like singing windchimes. "What is the one quality that is required to be a great leader?"

Fox looked down at his own tea, as if the answer would divine from the liquid careening in waves. Leadership. The talent to organize and incite others into action. Traits that are needed to hone their vision into reality. The concept of a successful leader could encompass many great qualities, but which, in particular, makes their followers trail behind them through the flames of battle? Yet, when it came to his own team-

Slippy was a dear childhood friend, not needing a reason to stay beyond years of fortified loyalty and gleeful nostalgia. The countless shared nights and midnight chatter as roommates in boarding school had to count for something. Through thick and thin, the wizard of spaceships and engineering could be depended on through any obstacle, though Fox wondered just how the toad would take learning he had thrown in the towel during the duel.

Falco was a tough call. The falcon was shifty and cagey by nature. He was a leader of his own gang for many years and fought against Fox's authority every step of the way. Hopefully, the two had built enough camaraderie through their excursions and combat in the few years they'd worked together. The falcon wasn't one to waste needless energy or his time. If he never cared, he would never have made an effort to squawk his beak as incessantly as he did.

And Peppy? Fox huffed as his chest tightened. An echo rang in his ears of the older man's distant sentiments and dry practicality. The constant nagging of Fox's lackadaisical work ethic, sanding down his motivations into mere scraps of a heap. Perhaps he let the hare slip through the cracks. It was bound to happen eventually.

"I think one quality you need as a leader is to have the drive. The more passion you have and the effort exerted to show it, the more likely you can inspire others to possess as well."

Leon tilted his head to the side. "I concur that passion is an essential trait to possess, but it is not the defining one."

"Hmm." As Fox gazed further into his tea, he could have sworn he saw Wolf's loathsome scowl reflect in its shimmer for a brief moment. All crass and sass, but infectiously charming nevertheless. Maybe the pirate could grow on him, but so too could an itchy rash. "Perhaps it’s charisma? A leader needs to be likable, or else no one would consider following them in the first place."

"Not a requirement, yet indubitably a perk - and often an indication for potential."

"Yeah, just look at Wolf." Fox laughed as he popped a cheesecake into his mouth. He then almost choked, wary with regret if another dagger would come soaring his way from Leon.

Instead, his interrogator merely nodded, skating fingers along his jaw. "Sure, he can be a bit boorish and foolhardy at times, but that's part of his allure. Wolf is an individual and stands out from the crowd within a society that values superficiality and craven behavior. Strip away the glamour of his rough exterior, and you're left with a man of utmost raw emotion and passion."

"I'd never thought I'd hear Wolf and alluring in the same sentence." Fox almost ached from awkwardness, debating if Leon was naturally complimentary or attracted to his companion in crime. "Ok, I'm out of ideas. What's your definition of leadership, then?"

"What makes a great leader is simply their resilience - or in elementary terms, their ability to handle stress. For every hazardous situation, they meet it with a calculated response or crafty improvisation. No matter how hard or insurmountable the task, stress never overwhelms them or clouds their judgment, allowing them to prevail over any circumstance. Why do you think that men, no matter how talented, pass off the role of leaders so quickly to another? Because they cannot handle the stress of the responsibility to lead and advise under pressure. Leaders refuse to be victims of circumstance. If the die should cast against them, they forge ahead until the tides turn favorably."

Leon's eyes meandered through the space around Fox's head as if to unravel a light or aura that only he could see. "You're a leader, but you're different. Most leaders stave off their struggles or strive to rationalize them. And if not, they are fated to succumb to it. You just… consume stress. You contain. But for how much longer can you continue to do so before you implode?"

"Not too much longer, if yesterday was any more of a glaring omen." Fox bowed his head. "I've dealt with the pressure to succeed in everything I do, whether it be academics, martial arts, flying, or becoming the head of Star Fox. To fail in anything would be no different than death. Perhaps that's why the war didn't affect me as much as people believe. The consequences and fear of death had been ingrained in me long before, affecting me the same no matter what environment I was in."

"Regardless, little kit, you still are of strong character. You walk a path that has been laid out for you that was not of your choosing. Could it be that you accepted your fate a long time ago? Bolstered yourself to the tribulations ahead? How else were you able to accomplish the things you do with that stone tied to your feet? No matter how great their skill and abilities may be, no person can propel themselves to fight an entire army on their own without conviction."

Endless conditioning and training administered like a lobotomy. A perfect walking mold of the idealized hero. Of the visionary - of the father. It was a matter of nature versus nurture. Were heroes made, or were they born? Regardless, what actually _defined_ a hero?

Was it the astonishing selflessness and martyrdom? To dive headfirst into combat, or challenge without regret or reprieve? A hero must imagine visions beyond tangible reality, daring to do that which no other man or woman could think. To make the impossible an achievable feat. They needed to speak through action alone and blaze into the future so that others could follow behind. But the journey forward would be a solitary one with idealism as their only companion. Waiting for the rest of the world to catch up not just physically but also in their backward beliefs. 

"This leads me to my next question," Leon began once more, stroking his chair's arms. "Do you believe there is a point to war?"

The pilot writhed in his seat. The question sparked a literal nerve, like a striking match across Fox's neck. At last, his emotions spoke for him.

"Is there a point to war beside the selfishness and rotten agendas of corrupt men in power? War is senseless as it is terrible. If there is a purpose, then it is only to destroy everything it touches and ruin the lives of the young who are forced to fight for the old."

"An astute assessment, but does it really destroy _everything_? What of the mercenaries and merchants who depend on the battle to fuel their careers? Take your fellow cellmate, Mr. Panda. His company Space Dynamics profited substantially from the war, fulfilling shipments of weapons and ship parts to Corneria and Venom. In particular, he was instrumental in many transactions to Venom's insurgency - as well as ours."

Leon then leered to his side, as if the pudgy red panda was present in the room. "Until he bit off more than he could chew. Attempting to blackmail and undercut Sargasso was a death wish that I was more than pleased to grant."

Fox snorted. So that's why Red was imprisoned here. What other shady dealings have that literal blob of smarminess divulged to other illegitimate sources? A tuck of worry folded on Fox's forehead. If the red panda had access to the Great Fox's parts database and weapons locker, did he illegally sell that information to Sargasso, possibly?

"And what of it? Just because their careers depend on it doesn't make it right."

"Your family benefited the most from the fighting. If there were no battles to face, no one would ever know the legendary name of McCloud."

Fox choked down a bout of anger. "No, the McClouds didn't fight because it was an opportunity. We fought because criminals like you don't stay in their lanes and mind their own business."

The chameleon offered a deliberate, protracted blink. "People are scared of change. They crave a state of peace for its consistency. However, within peace lies only stagnation. The war five years ago took so many lives, but the universe has reacted to it and purged the dead to make way for new life. My wish is to simply shift the connotation behind how we suffer. War is simply a competition or a sporting event on a grander scale. Opposite forces and tensions fighting against one another in the ultimate pressure cooker, churning out men to utilize the maximum extent of their physical and mental capabilities."

"I'm a cynical asshole sometimes, but not cold-blooded,” Fox frowned. “To compare war to a sport or something so inconsequential is absolutely disgusting." The pilot continued to swallow down his lumps of rage, frustrated by this futile discussion. "Yes, you need strain to pull back a bowstring and launch an arrow, but you pull it too hard, and it can snap in half. And I'd rather not have to reach my breaking point again."

Leon licked his lips. "Pain is universal. It is the single thread that binds every living being together or divides them apart. However, one's natural instinct is to shelter themselves from experiencing any form of pain. Those who deflect hardship are ironically doomed to succumb to it. Instead, I welcome it as an essential process of life. Pain is also transformative. Those who are tempered with the greatest of inordinacies and live will evolve into something much greater."

"Keyword there. _If_ they survive." Fox muttered, gripping his chair as if it were about to take off. "Pain can be used to teach us, but it can also hamper and hinder those unable to have the means or resources to recover. There are better methods to teach others rather than just relying on the most severe one. Just because it's effective now, doesn't mean it's the best choice in the long run."

"What did you gain when times were easy? You learned that your bed was soft, your belly was full, and your clothes were warm. Did you learn anything useful? I think not. You are the great hero you are now because of the tribulations you have faced and lived through. And if one dies to aid the growth of another, then at least their existence had meaning. If one chooses to tarry through life and neither seeks to improve themselves or another? Then the universe is better to be rid of them."

Fox thumbed his ear as it twitched. "I am the person I am today due to my own experiences and hardships. I've loved, and I've suffered. Yet I enjoy the moments of peace much more because of what I had gone through. If I was in a constant state of pain, how can I ever enjoy anything?"

"Because you assume that life is meant to be enjoyed. Life is conflict. And conflict is nothing but a tool to enhance the body like a dull knife to a sharpening kit. Will you be the predator, or will you be the prey? Besides, if you want to see someone without pain, then I'll introduce you to the dead."

Rolling his head back on the chair, Fox was almost wholly snarling at this point. This looming anger he had locked away for so many years had broken free - a planned jailbreak a decade in the making. It spouted during his fight with Andross and the other day with a hurricane of punches towards Wolf. He knew that the anger has no discernible body, but its volume can be limitless. It cannot speak on its own, but screams and bellows when it strikes, taking no heed of its surroundings. Time and place - irrelevant.

But anger would serve no useful purpose here - it never did. Irrationality was unbecoming.

Not McCloud worthy.

"Leon, earlier you said you're an assassin. Aren't you seeking to kill your targets as quickly as possible? And if they were dead, how can they seek to improve?"

Leon pursed his mouth as if tasting something particularly sour. "I suppose that's my own flaw and vice. I get a bit too overzealous in my work. You see, I enjoy inflicting such immense pain in others, it fascinates me to witness just how much one can withstand before they die! To watch people fight back and struggle in life or death situations!"

The chameleon extended his arms as if to project a speech to an audience of thousand bystanders. The trills in Leon's laughter fluttered throughout Fox's rigid posture, the range of echoes teetering between happiness and mania. The zeal in his voice does not cease - ever increasing by the moment.

"Often, it is people who you least expect that have the greatest capacity to hold onto their life! That determination to live can stem from many places, such as survival, revenge, or the desire to return to a loved one. When they are faced with a trial that could spell destruction or renewal and choose to fight back, the _change_ happens. When a mortal removes their shackles of the need for joy and love in exchange for might and power. The apotheosis from when a man becomes a warrior; the true beauty and latent potential now born."

Bolting up, Leon then slammed his hands on the table so that every piece of china shook and clanked. "Do you understand my enthusiasm now? How I wish to practically leap off the walls in feverish delight? Your stay at Sargasso is your next trial. Perhaps your most defining one."

Fox stuttered, fingers tapping and digging into his thighs. The chameleon climbed onto the table, knees and hands deftly maneuvering around every plate and cup, creeping closer. Bulging eyes now lit like a bonfire, frenzied and raving.

"You see, Wolf is the flame, this floating fortress is your crucible. And with the right fixings inside, I wonder, just what kind of man will arise? Baptized and purified by fire, feet rushing among smoldering coals? Or will you simply turn to ash?"

Leon's vehemence crackled and spat cinders, seething words smoked and vanished in the air. Reeling back in his chair with a sudden claustrophobia, Fox stared back as his clammy arms slipped off the armrests. Leon's shaking hands reached Fox as if to prick at something between his brows, marking the third eye to be ripped open.

"Something lies deep within you. How else were you able to win a war with just you and your crew? To endure against legions of enemy ships and return home alive? That person is gone - missing. When will that hero reemerge?"

The entrance door squeaked open. All parties swiveled their necks to see Panther Caruso sneak into the room as though the floor were littered with grime. With a fist pressed into his thigh and mangled whiskers, the gangster was remarkably flustered, as if drifting into a dark cavern with no plausible exit.

"It smells like a sea of bad cologne in here." Panther wrinkled his nose. "Leon? You're late to report to the bridge for the next sortie. It's your turn to lead the next squadron and-" he then froze, processing the sight of his Star Wolf associate balancing upon the table and Fox staring back with sweat-soaked hair: dumb-founded.

" _You_." Panther sneered, the volume in his voice rising. "What is Fox doing away from the clinic!?"

Leon effortlessly bounded back to his seat in a single leap, untroubled. "What else? We are having a chat."

"What kind of chat?" On further inspection, Panther's mouth dropped to his chest as if his jaw had dislocated. His golden eyes puckered with blasphemy and horror upon viewing the pastries and dainty doilies. Hands flexing and aching to wallop every bit of china crashing to the floor. "A t-tea party? You're having a _tea party_ with our captive?! What kind of practices do you run, if any at all?!"

Swooping beside Fox, Panther prodded the pilot's chest with a reproving finger. "I knew you being here was going to be a problem. There are too many tasks and obligations to be done. You serve as nothing other than a major hindrance. If I were Wolf, you'd already be dead."

Leon took a vexingly loud slurp of his tea, canceling out the noise. "But you're not, and you'll do well to obey his wishes."

"He's making a mistake!" Panther yelped, petulant.

"That is his mistake to make!" Leon matched Panther's yelling with his own. The two criminals glared at one another, fury like dueling blades interlocked at an impasse. "Keep interfering with his plans, and you'll know how easily you can be replaced - just like our past alumni."

Panther stood his ground, claws unsheathed. "Either way, Fox is coming with me. _Now_."

"And he will, my kitty. But you have angered me, and so you shall wait outside the door."

With a wink, Leon gave another harsh clear of his throat, and both attendants rushed to intervene at the table, hands and arms flexing and ready to grapple. Like a magnet of a conflicting charge, Panther's twitched back in stiff revulsion as Leon's attendants bore their nudity closer and closer to the hitman. He almost hurdled over the furniture to bolt out the door.

"Huh. I take it Panther is more prude than I thought." Fox rubbed his chest to assuage himself from Panther's assaulting finger. Mental log to note that overt displays of masculine sexuality could repel the haughty gangster like a house cat to running bathwater. Two victories in one day - hopefully, Wolf would be next served some delicious retribution. "I'm surprised you're so nonchalant about the matter, Leon."

"You don't pose a threat to me, McCloud. At least not in the state you are now. But if it was his desire to strike you down, then I would not hesitate. Alas, I suppose I'll have to wait to ask my final question."

Fox stood at last from his chair, a snarky challenge to his tone. "And now it's my turn to ask the questions. What was all of this for, Leon? Why did you need to ask me such random topics?"

"I needed to know one thing and one thing only." Leon's voice lowered considerably. "You're just like him, aren't you?"

"Who?"

"Who else? Wolf himself."

"Save the clichés, please." Fox rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry with his lips. "We are _nothing_ alike."

Leon leaned back in his seat, balking in this disapproval. "I do not understand your distaste for Wolf. Both of you are very similar. The universe bends and pushes onward, molding its inhabitants as it pleases. On rare occasions, there are people like you and Wolf, who dare to push back."

"In what way? That we both ride an aircraft, have a similar haircut, and enjoy a nice reenactment of a bar brawl? Wolf would never have answered the questions in the same manner as I did."

"It is not the answer I was seeking but _how_ you answered." A devious smile spread across Leon's scales. "What I meant is that you both share a similar intensity and passion that has been unseen in this galaxy. You just have chosen different paths. Had things been different - had fate been kinder to all of us - perhaps you would have been on the same side."

Holding his wrists, Fox looked to the floor. Resisting to such a baffling comparison. "I doubt that."

"You’ve had a name of prestige since birth, along with wealth and a support system. You had your father and mother, albeit briefly. What did he have? Nothing. He has fought against fate to rise above others that deemed him inferior. When he finally earned his own seat with destiny, it was you that stripped it from him. The catalyst of his current success, the motivation behind his anger and hatred - that is why you are here now, Fox McCloud, to see his current reign as the Lord of the Outer Galaxy. To fight him once more, to live or die, his journey will come full circle."

At last, the pilot looked up, his tolerance now dwindling. "That is just _so_ dramatic. Every single one of you is taking this situation way too seriously. Nothing you say will convince me that this whole thing is rational or necessary." Fox stomped his way out towards the exit, turned back, and gently: "But… thanks for the tea."

"Oh, and before you leave," Leon called out, snapping his fingers towards his wall of books. "Shelf four, row five, number seventeen."

The canine attendant trembled and pointed to himself, but did not wait for an answer. He sprinted to the bookshelf like an athlete on a track relay, worried hands retrieved the desired item back to his master.

"A bit faster than usual. Two seconds later, and you would have had the whip," Leon said with more disappointment than pride. He then pointed to Fox, to which the canine creaked over, bowing with opening hands to present the book. "A little light reading in your cell for later, once you are done with Wolf."

" _The Comprehensive Tea Companion Compendium_?" Fox took the heavy book in his hands with a fake, appeasing smile, like he’d just unwrapped a holiday gift with the ugliest sweaters inside. "Oh. How _generous_. Thanks."

"Away with you now. Please send Wolf my regards, for I cannot be there to deliver it myself." With a flat palm, Leon blew a kiss at Fox's direction as if it were to float away, light as a feather.

As soon as Fox crossed the threshold out, he keeled over at the knees, wheezing. A knot of tension in his lungs had been unable to break free until he was sheltered from the chameleon's probing. A trash compartment next to him buzzed at a low volume, awaiting input. Fox spastically glanced between the bin and this worthless book twice over, the weight of it in his hands suddenly magnifying to that of an immovable boulder. The only source of restraint to not thump it to the bottom was Leon's dagger, not missing its mark for disposing of his property. 

Fox panted. "I'm in a madhouse. An utterly insane mental asylum."

Him and Wolf? Alike? Asinine.

The vulpine shook, rubbing at the sore spot on his bandaged arm. Debating whether to run back in and tell Leon what he actually thought about his twisted viewpoints beyond his standard passive aggression - or merely living to see another day. 

This wasn't the time for this. Just like that doctor said: play along and keep your head low.

Discord. Too many thoughts and voices crying out in a muddled melody. Subdued thoughts streamed out for attention, toppling over one another in a blind fury to escape first. But one thought soared above the rest and shook him to his core:

_Was this a kidnapping or a homecoming?_

_Maybe. Just maybe, Fox McCloud._

_You're exactly where you belong._

* * *

Next Chapter: **Deadlock Vagabonds**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone.
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has ever read/commented/kudo'd/bookmarked my story. As a novice writer, this is the first thing I've ever written in my life, so it means the world to me that you are willing to sit down and read a story idea that I've been passionate about for some time. There are times already that I sit at the computer screen for hours at a blank page with writer's block, and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into. Going from no experience to writing a full-fledged story is daunting as it is scary. However, your feedback has inspired me to keep going. Just know that I appreciate your time and thoughts immensely and love hearing what you think. :)
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter. It will entirely focus just on Fox and Wolf. 
> 
> Thanks again!


	6. Deadlock Vagabonds

**Camellia sinensis**

Kingdom: Plant

Family: Theaceae

Order: Ericales

_An evergreen plant derived from the Camellia family. There are many variations recognized by the Botanist Alliance Organization. Still, the most prominent three are derived and originated from eastern Corneria, the sporadic grassland environments of Katina, but favoring Fortuna's tropical climate. Leaves are leather-like in texture, holding delicate white blossoms, growing best in hot and humid conditions—the higher altitude grown, the finer the quality and flavor. Like wine, the soil influences the taste of the final product, acidity in rainfall, and how it is harvested, blended and stored._

"Fascinating - and highly intriguing." Fox continued to narrate out loud the massive tome in his hands. "The world was just so much simpler before this moment."

Licking the pad of his thumb, Fox flipped to the next page of the book. He then cleared his throat, forceful enough for the other party to hear.

_Every leaf of the Camellia sinensis is packed with various chemicals, including amino acids, traces of minerals, carbohydrates, polyphenolic compounds, and caffeine. Whether green, black, or white, all types of tea are derived from the same plant. However, every tea's chemistry and product can have its characteristics changed, along with its flavor profile, by how the leaves are prepared. Considering the fermentation and drying process, mixed with how the flavanols are oxidized in the air, being pan-fried or steeped determines the type of tea produced._

"Did you know that, Panther? I certainly didn't." Fox giggled, amused by how the Star Wolf member chose to sit at the bench's other end. "If we have to wait for Wolf to be finished before I can speak with him, at least we can spend the time educating ourselves on the mystique of tea harvesting, right?"

A huff was accompanied with a sharp twist of the neck and a death glare. Unable to let the vulpine out of sight, Panther ranted in his foreign tongue with a fist pressed into his mouth. Fox didn't need the use of a translator to decipher grouchiness or aggression in any dialect. That last sentence definitely had a swear or two in it, judging from how the feline rolled the syllables out like a charged motor with its brakes activated.

Tapping on his current page, Fox elicited a firm shush. "Excuse me. Keep it down, I'm trying to read here."

_Black Tea: Full-bodied and rich. The highest caffeine content comparable to a cup of coffee. However, caffeine is absorbed into the bloodstream in paced dosages, allowing a more even energy distribution. Regulates cholesterol and blood pressure._

_White Tea: Delicate and with a subtle sweetness. Harvested from the youngest buds of the plant. Lowest caffeine content. Known to aid in hydration along with revitalizing and plumping the skin._

_Green Tea: Flavors range from astringent, floral to fruity. Minimal caffeine content. Abundant with antioxidant and reversing mutational damages to DNA structure. Famous for alleviating stress and improving mood._

"Helps with mood, huh?" Fox quipped without looking up. "You could use some of that. Maybe several gallons."

"Will you shut up?" Panther leaped over and snatched the book from Fox's hands. "Give me that!"

The gangster then chucked the book away, a swift arm swung like a home run baseball bat walloping its incoming mark. Fox's ears flicked as he heard a thump in the distance. There was no way the book's threadbare frame was still intact from such a lob.

"If you dented Leon's book, he's going to be _so_ mad at you," Fox tattled with a smile that overtook his face, a jitter of juvenile excitement. "And I think we both know exactly how Leon executes his anger. Emphasis on execute."

Panther sat back down, fuming until a blizzard of cold contemplation froze his face to worriment. His neck now stiff, his gaze darted between Fox and the book's direction. It seemed as if the chameleon left a lasting impression on every soul in his dismaying presence. Not even his allies were spared from his insanity.

"And if Leon asked where it went, I'm going to tell him the truth. I'm not taking the fall for this one."

"God, don't you ever just shut your mouth!?" Panther barked back. "You're lucky Wolf has forbidden me to lay my hands on you again, or I'd wring your scraggly neck."

Another threat, Panther? Fox bore a devilish simper as mischievous thoughts rubbed palms in his mind. Judging by the haughty gangster's expeditious retreat after encountering bondage and debauchery from encountering Leon’s scantily clad attendants, Fox knew precisely how to play his next hand against Panther. He was tempted to save his new secret weapon, but this chance was just far too auspicious to resist. That punch in the elevator was due for payback - with added interest.

"Oh, _wring_ my neck, will you? Don't be gentle; I can take it." Wiggling his eyebrows, Fox trailed a finger down his narrow collar bone. Scooching closer to Panther, he leaned in, and a coquettish whisper blew from his parted lips: "My safe word is _barrel roll_."

The gangster reeled back with a theatrical gag, his scratchy tongue dangling out as though he were coughing up a wet furball. "This is what I mean. You're just so aggravating! Nothing is serious or worthwhile to you, not even your very life! Don't you understand the severity of your situation yet?!" Panther then raked his hands into his hair, clenching as if he were to rip out patches from nagging frustration. "Every millisecond that you stay here is _killing_ me."

Fox pouted as he mumbled to himself. "Apparently not fast enough."

"What was that!?" Panther bit the air with a snarl, raising an arm overhead to clobber down.

"H-hold up!" Fox screeched, raising his hands to block a likely incoming punch. "Remember what Wolf said! No touching!"

Crimping his suit, the feline slouched backwards like a child disciplined to the naughty stool in a corner. Amused at his newfound powers of control, Fox patted himself on the back - silent victory applause.

Waiting outside for the Pirate Lord's attention was almost reminiscent of the time Fox had been sent to the headmaster's office at boarding school for breaking curfew. All to retrieve one of Slippy's prized toy robots, which according to the toad was a collector's edition outfitted with missile swarmer attacks and wave pulse reflectors. Whatever the hell that meant. Either way, the young vulpine would not be able to sleep to the blubbering tears of his best friend, the toy accidentally mislaid somewhere on one of the many floors of the dormitory. Fox was determined to retrieve it back, for the sake of friendship - and for the promise of quiet, soothing rest.

The reconnaissance mission required stealthy footfalls and keen hearing to avoid the security patrols searching for students that dodged their flashlights' glares. Fox located the prized action figure to his back pocket (appropriately left at the robotics section of the library hall) only to then be seized and dragged by the collar. It was the notorious hall monitor, that snot-nosed, hunched-back skeevy opossum eager for obnoxious praise in escorting every new offender to his master's doorstep. Clapping and jeering with utter joy for having caught Fox McCloud, as if there was a more significant victory in nabbing a celebrity child than one of the commoner stock.

The stamping of detentions and reprimands on his permanent school record was all worth it just for Slippy. To see the toad's sobbing tears convert to relief and regard, an inkling of merriment on a pudgy face struck with homesickness. That the robot could again be tucked away in his arms, slumbering just as comfortably as another would a stuffed animal companion. A provision of innocence and safety needed from a home away from home. A mantle of deserved naiveté to blanket a child, sheltering them from what tribulations and the rat race of adulthood would soon hurtle at them both.

Silly childhood memories. Looking back to the hitman next to him, Fox couldn't help but feel how Panther fit that image of the classic nark flawlessly - even as dangerous as he was. Every claw was akin to a hidden pocket knife, yearning to slice or garrote another throat.

"So what did you and Leon talk about at your little quaint tea party?" Panther huffed, still irritated, but striking up a conversation. Most likely to distract himself from striking the vulpine again to avoid Wolf's wrath. "Actually, scratch that. I don't want to know."

"I do have a question for you, Panther." Fox pointed to the fresh rose tucked in Panther's chest pocket. "What's the deal with the roses? You always have one somewhere strapped on you. Is it like your signature thing or something? A calling card?"

Panther cupped the rose close to his heart, whiskers shifting and unfurling in a tight, averse line. He seemed like he was considering whether it would be wise to divulge further to the pesky prisoner. "Roses are a tradition and are a part of the Caroso family crest. The name means ‘to be an apprentice’ - untapped potential to do and be anything - and the roses symbolize the apprentice superseding the master. Once innocent and starry-eyed, now blossoming into a sign of nobility and chivalry."

He delicately pet the red petals with the softback of his fingers as it were a companion - or still alive. "Its meaning now is a bit ironic. The Caroso bloodline and its descendants have now degenerated into a mafia family no longer in power. How times have changed." Panther broke eye contact with a rasp, demoralized by a passing memory. "But I… I still seek to possess that nobility, no matter where I go, even in a felonious place such as this."

Fox observed the Star Wolf member's rapid descent into a well of despondency. Nuances of an undisclosed betrayal sagged Panther's once upright posture, tapering out the roughness of his deep timbre to a kitten's mewling. It unnerved Fox to see such haughty, noble features reduced to a gaunt from misery, almost as if the feline was just another man like Fox, endlessly fighting to preserve his true nature.

"Is Dr. Erwood also a fan of roses as well? I saw quite the bouquet of them on her desk, and I know there's no way she could have gotten that by herself." Nodding slightly, Fox grinned. "The roses were great, but I think she's more of a dahlia kind of girl. "

Curiosity perked up Panther's hunched form, wrinkling his graphite-colored nose. "Do you think so? What makes you say that?"

"The roses are a bit too traditional for her. She's a scientist, after all." Fox winked. "You'll need something sophisticated and uncommon yet unassuming if you want to get her attention. That's why the dahlias are perfect. I'd recommend the ball or water lily groups, as they are really aesthetically pleasing. My personal favorites."

"Didn't think you'd have an interest in horticulture. Fox McCloud, the ranger and gardener? I wasn't expecting that. Those titles barely suit you, just like you being a hero."

"Yeah, I guess." Fox laughed a dry 'heh-heh,' letting that backhanded compliment slide. "It's my mother's influence. I can't take all the credit. You wouldn't know it by looking at her, but she liked to get her hands dirty. Woodworking furniture in the garage skidding in sawdust or wrenching down a leaky pipe. Was a tomboy in every sense of the word. Just one that still had a ginormous high-heel collection that would make most women cry from envy."

"Somehow, I think my mother and yours would have gotten along." Panther closed his eyes with a relaxed smile. "Mrs. McCloud must have been an amazing woman."

Staring at the pocketed flower nestled to Panther's chest, Fox imagined the last time his mother sheared the rose bushes in the front yard, now left to the fickleness of nature. Ever the doting caretaker with green thumbs, encouraging affection to every one of her floral children, regardless of their thorns and sharp trims. "She was. One of the best."

"A-anyway," the smile on the feline's face fell. "I must admit, that didn't even occur to me to think about my choice in flowers." Panther purred and rubbed his chin, lost in thought for a brief moment. "Perhaps you have a point. Maybe the roses are a bit too derivative and predictable. I'll take that into consideration, and-" Abruptly stopping, the feline curled his tail into a knot, a rise in his vocal pitch. "Wait."

Panther then shuffled over several seats closer, nearly pouncing upon the frail pilot. Golden eyes now flinty and sparked with anger.

"If you tell anyone - and I mean anyone - that I've been courting Branwen," and then with a hiss of his tongue, Panther mock slashed his throat slowly with the claw of his thumb. "I won't give a damn what Wolf thinks and I will take care of you myself. The repercussions of seeing a prisoner could ruin me."

Fox smirked in high spirits, looking past Panther's unregistered threat as it were invisible. Instead, he kicked his legs one after the other, limbs dangling off the bench and not quite reaching the floor. "I wouldn't dream of it. She looks like she could use something to distract her from, well," Fox motioned his hands suggestively to the environment around them. "All of this, really."

Studying Fox's objective with a glower of suspicion, Panther relented and resumed back to his neutral tone. He retracted his claws on each finger, one by one. "That she does."

 _Ding. Ding. Ding._ The large doors parted nearby, singing a pleasant doorbell, cheery as a songbird chirping the morning into awakening. Peculiar, calming, and out of place for a pirate stronghold.

"The Observatory Deck is now awaiting a party of one." An AI's voice announced on the overhead speaker. "Fox McCloud, please proceed through the opened doors."

"Looks like Wolf is ready for you." Panther stood to stride away, but turned, oddly wary. "Do us both a favor and try not to be your sarcastic self. Reign in the jokes and don't push your luck, McCloud. You will find that Wolf is less tolerant than even I, if you keep testing his patience."

The feline departed off, but not without a tentative pause to his steps that was more a slide than a plod of feet. Head weaving in all cardinal directions, ensuring that the recent events hadn’t been watched by a third party. Panther then picked up the book and dusted off his thighs before tucking it away in his suit. Too engaged in concealing the damaged item to notice several rose petals trailing in his wake.

Laughing to himself, Fox watched the gangster bumble along out of sight. "Nobility even in places like this, eh, Panther?"

The pilot caught a whiff of the unmistakable trace of luxurious, full-bodied smoke that ever wavered within Wolf's presence. It permeated from the doors in tendrils that pulled on the hem of his hospital gown, pulsing in waves back and forth from the entrance. Like a predator in wait, ingesting the acidic scent of fear from its prey, stalking the hedges of a forest overtaken by midnight's dark casting.

Fox leapt to his feet, patted down his sides, and loosened his shoulders' stiffness before walking in. The doors shut behind him with a click of a lock.

_Ding. Ding. Ding._

"Observatory deck is now occupied."

* * *

The deck at the near zenith of Sargasso was an undiscovered treasure. A grand window swallowed the expanse and entirety of the oval-shaped room, giving way to the marvel of outer space. Rows of suede couches and chairs were lined up like a movie theater, with only the stars and constellations as the matinee. And a once well-stocked miniature bar - now dwindling from use - peddled with mixed refreshments, libations, and various ales.

But the eerie, low-frequency whir of the station's engines resonated with Fox. A music akin to singing bowls struck and chanting vibrations, his spirit floating to a state of serenity. The calm after the storm, paved into dawn. And Wolf O'Donnell waited for him by the window's edge, peering over as if no barriers were before him, deliberating on whether to remain glued to the floor or take the final dive into oblivion.

Fox minced his steps as he approached, goosebumps under the fur of his arms and legs, awestruck at the view of an infinite night sky of the outer Lylat. Asteroids instead of clouds, ship debris instead of flocks of migratory birds, and sparkling stardust smudged together, a fading brilliance of a kaleidoscope of colors. A band of that faraway cosmic nebula sprung from the window’s reflection to streak Wolf's face like a blindfold. A visor of glistering light that augmented the red hue of his eye to a bright scarlet, highlighting a doleful guise, yet resentful all the same.

One eye opened, the other forever sealed. A coffer of secrets half unbarred, signaling what prizes awaited those who dared to journey further, yet unable to fully savvy the danger that lurked within. That eternal scowl upon his lordly face ever matched with those furrowed brows. Fox much preferred that vicious smirk from yesterday, even if witnessing that alarming expression made the back of his neck prickle with static. Better that than the expression of discontentment Wolf seemed to wear so frequently.

His nemesis now was a lost soul venturing for answers between empty glasses and corked bottles at the miniature bar. That sinewy throat dripping with liquor, guzzling down another half-pint. He drank as if the night was eternal and that tomorrow would never come. No consequences or repercussions for drowning out sorrow, no reason to toast a glass with a cheer in celebration. It was just straight, slightly-below-room-temperature whiskey - malted barley aged for years to fermented refinement - no ice. The lupine _would_ be a connoisseur of the traditional classics. Good on you, Space Pirate.

And Wolf stood with his hands interlocked behind his torso, puffing on a cigar, a brooding gaze out through the observatory deck window. Reminiscing about a forgotten world that he could no longer grasp but still struggled to understand and re-create its beauty. As if he never belonged - or attempted to - for that matter. Like a cruel deity of a dead civilization, rationalizing mortal men's needs in the uncompromising lens of an omnipotent power. Doomed to the role of a spectator, never a participant.

Just like James had done.

Standing against the breakfast nook window all night to early morning, viewing his late wife's garden at the forefront. So close that Fox could be in reach with a few steps, yet millions of miles away all the same. Even if he were to pull upon his father's unfolded sleeve, call his name again and again until he strained his voice, his cries would never pierce through James’s somber trance. For it was not Fox who he was waiting for. The legendary hero sought a tender song's lure, a mimicry of a reply that would never manifest, fading memories intertwining a response. Too busy chasing the specter in the glass, which fogged the frame with its sighs and pleas.

His father could not hear his mother any longer, but she begged nevertheless:

_I may not be here to leave another kiss upon your lips, but that does not mean our first kiss should be forgotten. I may not be here to fill your arms and lay my head upon your chest, but my warmth has never vanished from your side._

_I am not here, but your son still is. Love him as I would. Love him for the both of us. Live life as you would before you knew me. It was not I that made you the man you are today, so don't let my memory be the one to destroy him._

Fox shook his head, banishing the odd comparison to the moment at hand. It was not his father before him this time. Nor would it ever be again.

And Fox wondered, just what did his nemesis see out in the sea and drift of space? Or rather what was it that he was _seeking_? An alternate timeline of victory instead of defeat? A reversal of roles between rivals? Another life that once was and could never be? Or something sublime beyond both of their comprehension - a utopia of peace and repose - a land eternally denied to warriors like themselves. If there were an afterlife and a promise of heaven, how would they ever ascend and reach its pearly gates with their clipped wings?

"Have a seat anywhere, Fox." Wolf's hand directed to the bar next to him. "Pour yerself a drink, if you'd like."

Fox plopped down on the couch in the front row. Starlight glistened through the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter table. A single shot of that gasoline-like concoction was a one-round knockout punch for a flyweight like himself. No need for a giggling fit, weaving around a spinning room to the impromptu lap dances that were more a seizure than sensual. If, of course, his cadet's stories of that night's events had indeed been accurate. Not that Fox could recall, too busy fumbling to the medicine cabinet while praying to the porcelain god. There was a reason why his bestowed nickname in flight school was 'Tipsy' McCloud - and also why no bottle would ever be tarnished with his paw prints.

Fox waved in refusal. "I'm good. I'm practically swimming in sugar right now, thanks to Leon. The last thing I need is to top it off with some hard liquor."

A few minutes passed without a response, the two men basking in the silence. Fox poked his tongue into his cheek and inhaled an exaggerated breath, hoping to stir some comment. If this kept up, he would need a ventilator mask just to be within speaking distance of Wolf. 

"You'll get wrinkles faster if you keep smoking as much as you do. Your coat will lose its gloss and thickness too. Wiry and dull fur won't look good on you." Fox coughed, fanning away the fumes.

Wolf roved at something flying in the distance. Unflinching cheekbones and jaw sharpened with concentration; a dusting of a palm against his ridged features could have flayed the skin like a razor-edged rock. He continued to stare ahead, tapping ash into a congested ashtray that spilled over, ignoring the younger man behind him.

"Along with all your scowling, Wolf. You know it takes less effort to smile, right?" If Wolf smiled naturally, that is. Like an average person.

"Y'know, your old man said this once to me before," Wolf chewed on the cigar and drawled through his fangs' bite. "Never pass up a good chance to shut up."

James did say that occasionally, but never directly to his son. Certainly never in front of the cameras or interview panels. That was a line that was reserved out of earshot only to close friends. Didn't fit the family-friendly, heroic presentation that the advertising agencies pushed upon him so frequently. But how would Wolf know that? What was their history exactly?

"Who are you?" The pirate began mulling over the reflection of his nemesis before him.

"Um. Who else?" Blinking, Fox looked about the room to ensure the question was indeed directed at him. "Fox McCloud. That's my name. Hasn't changed as much as everyone else here keeps bestowing nicknames upon me. I have to give points for creativity, at least." 

"No, really. Just who is the man behind me right now? Are you nothin' but a pretender? A man tryin' to be Fox McCloud, but can't hold up the act?"

Working his jaw, Fox sucked back in a fluttering breath, attempting to conjure a retort or witty comeback. But the jot of a worthy response eluded him. A pretender to the real Fox McCloud. A hero's role played for years just as an actor performed for a recording camera, memorized with lines of dialogue and with staged stunts of valor. But do we not eventually become the act of the role we play? Are we all not actors pretending to live the lives that we - or others - expect from us? At what point does a lie become the truth?

Wolf's head drooped, almost wobbling at the neck. "I've got a lot on my mind. Planned this moment for years. Had it played out in my head of the glory and triumph of your defeat and my deep-rooted revenge fulfilled. There's so much I've been wantin' to say and ask of you all this time. Speeches and practiced monologues that I spouted over and over again. And now that you're here - and after what happened?" he murmured, voice wiry. "Words fail me."

"Maybe you can start with an apology. I just can't wait to hear what exactly you have to say to justify capturing me." Fox frowned with pursed lips. Impatient. "Go on. I'm waiting."

"An apology, huh? Awright." Wolf hurled a caustic glare over his shoulder that caused the vulpine to withdraw back. The younger pilot's heart practically vaulted up to his throat. "I apologize for bringin' the wrong hero here! And-" The lupine fumbled his speech, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. That red eye scoured his prisoner's form, top to bottom. "What the fuck are you still wearin' that gown for? You're as appropriately dressed as a submarine with a screen door."

"What, this?" Fox blinked and lifted the top of his gown's collar, which billowed like a tent. "Don't trash your own threads, O'Donnell. You supplied it. I'm just wearing it. If they look shitty, that's on you." 

"Are you done?" Wolf shot a glance resembling abhorrence, rubbing his forehead from the shivering grip of a migraine brought on by an all-night binge. The pirate then poured himself another round, glass clinking against the clasp of his claws, threatening to crack under further pressure.

 _Reign in the jokes and don't push your luck, McCloud,_ Panther's voice suddenly boomed in a sensible warning. Though the last of Fox's luck was already thrown overboard, and no cord or life preserver in sight to tow it back. Fox scratched the back of his neck. "My clothes, um, are being washed. Hopefully. I'll try to read the room and zip my lips next time."

"Tch." Wolf prickled at his foe's meekness, as if Fox's self-reproach somehow stung the pirate at the stinger end of a scorpion's tail. Just what precise reaction did he want from Fox? The lupine quaffed another swallow, the liquor soothing the bubbling rage, quelled and absorbed back into its source. "Listen, McCloud. I owe you an explanation. What I’m about to say is between you and me, and it doesn't leave this room. Know that I don't do this for just anyone."

Fox sat upright, ears triggered with a twitch, and faced forward. The guileless tone that sailed above Wolf's signature brass commanded the vulpine's full attention.

"I thought differently of ya, Fox. That you and I were cut from the same cloth. Both warriors that only lived and yearned for the thrill of battle. Capable of rolling with the tides - and the punches. In the same league of pursuin' only might and glory above all else, like every other thug or pirate in here. How else were you able to win all those years ago? You're the spittin' image of your father and got the McCloud blood in your veins, and yet-" 

Wolf squeezed his eye shut, sincerity enveloped his speech. "I hate admittin' when I'm wrong, but you're nothin' at all what I imagined you'd be like. This whole duel was just a big mistake."

A mistake? Tiling his head, the vulpine bent ahead so far that he almost fell off the couch. Did he mishear Wolf just now? Or was it the medication? Fox didn't know whether to ask his foe to repeat himself or fidget in his seat like an impatient toddler.

"Fox. What happened yesterday, don't be ashamed or beat yourself up over it. It's a curse that all warriors have to eventually confront their demons. Once you enter the battlefield once, you never leave it. Every day is a constant struggle and a test of wills. The difference between a great warrior to a weak one is knowin' a fight isn't just with your hands, but with your mind. And that's a battle that never ends."

Wolf brought the glass to his lips again, chugging down the remainder of his booze in several gulps. Multiple droplets eluded his mouth, skirting and riding down below to his chest fur. "And I know firsthand what that's like." He then wiped his muzzle clean with the edge of his bandages, now damp with blood and alcohol. "The fact that I put you in a position that so many others have done to me, it fucked me up. Real bad. I never felt this way about anythin' before. But I need to make somethin' very clear."

Lumbering forward, tinctures of inebriation does not halt Wolf's advance to loom over the younger man, engrossed in thought. Fox's skin tingled to the realization that this is the first time Wolf has looked at him and not _through_ him. A once-piercing, crystal-focused gaze meant to extract and demolish now dwelled over Fox's form, acknowledging the young man for what he was and not what the pirate wanted him to be. Benign honesty dangled off his every low-pitched word.

"I don't like you, Fox. Just the thought of you gets me riled up somethin' fierce. But despite how I feel," Wolf kneeled at his rival's eye level, fixing and smoothing out the hospital gown's popped collar, "I still respect you. Immensely. No one else is worthy of being my rival. A great hero like yerself doesn't deserve to go out like that. Achin' in agony like a lost little pup." A bulging vein tensed in his neck, ruminating the next sentence. "I'm sorry, Fox McCloud. For bringin' you here to fight me. Callin' you a kid. It was dishonorable of me to do so."

Fox blinked his eyes rapidly, flabbergasted. Lightheadedness floundered his mind, scuttering to rationalize his foe's startling confession. As if witnessing a lewd image or something that was not meant to be seen. 

"You're… sorry?" The sound that ejected from Fox's throat was a mixture of a laugh, cough, and adolescent cracking. The pilot's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Why? Because I was in the wrong here, damn it!" Wolf shouted and smacked his forehead, a punishment for his outburst. Cooling down, he let his anger simmer to the wind. "You're still a soldier through and through, and I shouldn't have disrespected you like that. And if I had known what you were dealin' with, the shit you're goin' through, I wouldn't have brought you here to-" then he growled, standing and throwing his hands up. "Never mind. What's the point of it now."

Regret. An expression the pirate didn’t wear well, contorting his face to an unpleasant scrunch more than even his anger. Like he was unused to it. A complex, newly encountered problem with no possible solution in sight or reference to inquire. The beast, even when caged, still struggled to fight and break free until the end.

This was real strength. Not the display of bulging muscle, provoking gibes like swordplay, or the peerless fighting prowess. Just a man trekking headfirst into a whirlwind of his own emotional storm, unlike so many that stand idle with their back-turned in stolid impassiveness, incapable of growth or self-reflection. And Wolf O'Donnell of all people was the first to relent to his guilt. Fox pinned his arms to his stomach, embracing himself. Why did his enemy's remorse cause him to feel a pang of more tremendous guilt to begin with?

Muttering as to not break the enchantment before him, Fox stared in fascination without blinking. "Wow. You're really serious. I never took you as the kind of guy who would ever apologize for anything."

Wolf bent his neck, under eye bagged and exhausted without sleep. He then shrugged. "I hate not being in control, Fox. Of my emotions and everything otherwise. I let my grief consume me and I flew off the handle, makin' me say and do things I'd come to regret. That's why I had to apologize to you. To offer a McCloud the respect the bloodline is due."

This villain. This rival. This eternal foe.

A man Fox had once brought to the edge of death. To crawl out of a burning, broken ship hull, clutching at grievous wounds so to not spill the last droplets of his life essence. Wolf was a criminal. Was this not what was deserved? Could terror even distort such a ruthless, chiseled visage? Just what horrors ran through his mind, shouldering the final moments of mortality - bleeding, panicking, convulsing - alone? 

The dosage of medication collapsed to the pit of the gown's front pocket. Its contents jiggled and shifted in place, the twist of its cap scratched by the lupine's claws. Perhaps it was easier to dismiss him only as the enemy. Yet if Wolf had perished all those years ago, Fox would have never known this side of him. He was once a one-dimensional, abstract concept that now revealed depths when standing in the vulpine’s scrutinizing light. 

Fox's mind undulated to the dull gloom of a former memory. An oversized pair of scissors to cut the commencing ribbon of the grand opening of a new sponsored store. Delegates, representatives, and the mayor all present under the flashing of camera shots. And then a terrible, haunting scream boomed from the crowd like the crunching of metal, so loud that it could shatter reinforced glass.

"Fox McCloud is a charlatan and a deceiver! He is a murderer and as guilty as the Venomian scum that invaded our city! You people worship a false idol, the devil incarnate!"

And the last photograph captured the squelch of rotting fruit erupting like a grenade to his face, blinking away the burn of speckles of citric acid. Every head and robotic lens turned to witness a middle-aged, female cheetah, lugging waste from a bucket. Soon, the mob of fans and media alike swarmed upon her.

"My baby! My son! He is gone and dead, all because of _you_!" The woman shrieked as if she retched upon her own sorrow. Insanity erratically staggered her body as if her legs were to give out. "Our troops needed you at Katina during the war! The Venomian Mothership conquered the base my son was stationed at, and he fought until his last dying breath waiting for your arrival! But no, you took the route of least resistance of enemy troops through the Meteo field to Venom like the coward you are!"

She clawed and ravaged the air as if her frenzy would pull the dazed hero to her. Instead, the cheetah was carried away and subdued by vigilant bystanders in a tangle of matted, disheveled hair, kicking, and screaming chants of hysteria. Fox was unable to acquire one last look before being shoved and escorted by security off-stage to the safety of a body huddle.

Once a mother, wife, sister, and daughter, reduced to another victim of war and statistic recorded in the census. A woman of desperate anguish to hold upon the unraveling filaments of a perfect, happy life - now unbound. Destined to awaken to an empty home, a mirrored world where her darkest nightmares were now her reality. Fox never did match a name to her sorrow, but yearned and panted for her forgiveness nonetheless. Even his dreams would not let him forget how her lamentation crawled into his skin, a sensation burrowing like chittering roaches, her anguish now his own.

Did one life truly matter? Was all life not precious? To err is to live, and to live is to stumble and fall until we find our footing once again and rise. A cycle that thousands wretchedly wished for themselves should they fail in the public eye, but deny to so many others with reapproving judgment if the failure is not their own. If all creation is cursed to duplicate mistakes and fallacies, they are equally blessed to forgive and learn from them.

Where and when did the line need to be drawn in the sand? A trench dug out like a scar on a remote beach, marked by salt-brined planks of wood, at risk of being continually washed away by the rising tides of conflict. Hero and villain standing on opposite ends, immovable forces head on shearing under the weight of their sins, feet sinking into the sand. And perhaps from another man's perspective, depending on where they witnessed the pair either from sea, sky, or land - who was righteous and who was malevolent became confused.

A treaty was not just a binding document, just as forgiveness was not merely empty words. It was a commitment—a vow of two parties. A sacred promise to live for an ideal rather than an instinct.

The seven-digit bank accounts and multi-storied manor could never alleviate the shame. Cases of sheeny trophies and medals could never mend a broken heart. The constant praise, love letters, and flattery from the legions of rabid fans would never fill the silence snuffed out of self-hatred. But if both parties that stood at the precipice were capable of compassion and repentance, devoted to peace, he would strive to make the grueling effort. To endlessly retrace that line in the sand for as many times as necessary.

"I was going to be flippant, but-" Fox spoke from the steepled hands that barred his mouth. "Wolf, I accept your apology." Head bowed into his fingers, grit in that extensive green gaze. "And I'm sorry as well." 

Wolf pivoted to his rival with such haste that the whiplash might have snapped his mighty neck in half. "D-don't. You don't need to do that."

"Wolf, I'm not exactly an innocent party in all of this. I had no idea that you suffered so much because of me during the war. I can't even begin to comprehend the pain you must have felt while you were struggling to survive from our last engagement. If I was in your shoes and near death as well, maybe I would be angry and vengeful to the person who did that to me too." Fox's head creaked to the trajectory of Venom. "I can't lie and say that revenge has never been a motivator of mine either."

"Looking back, If I could have found out a way to never had us fight in the past, I would have tried." Fox sunk his canines into his bottom lip, deep enough that a metallic taste ebbed on his tongue’s surface. "No, I should have tried harder or even made an attempt, and not have left you at your crash site to die."

" _Stop_ that." Wolf snarled, stiffness in his jaw.

Fox looked up. Perplexed. "Stop what?"

"The sorries and whatnot." The pirate grunted, arms akimbo. "It's not just yer fault, Fox. I had an equal hand in all of this. I antagonized every one of our matches. If anythin', I had it comin'." 

"You apologized, so I felt the need to do the same. I'm being honest, Wolf. It's just how I feel. I attacked first yesterday, and punched and kicked you to hell. You didn't even strike back, I just-"

The snarl turned into a biting bark. "Fox, you attacked because I egged you on!"

Slipping off the couch, Fox trodded forward, pleading. "But I could have stopped! I was so scared of losing my life, so I did to you what I feared having done to me. I almost killed you during the war, Wolf! I have blood on my hands as well! I could have-"

"Enough!" The lupine roared back. "I don't wanna hear it. I don't want your damn pity!"

"No, you're not going to cut me off like you did yesterday, Wolf!" Fox stood as tall as he could, bumping his chest into Wolf's stomach, head on in confrontation regardless of their height difference. "A thug like you only seems to understand aggression. And if that's what it takes to get through your thick skull, then so be it." He then yanked the collar of Wolf's shirt, the scruff of his neck fur in hand, pulling the pirate sharply downward to his level. "You're going to listen to what I have to say. And if you have any respect for me like you claim, then you'll open your damn ears."

Wolf's eyebrows hitched up to the top floor. Eye forced open by the surprising insolence, along with a tint of ire for having to submit. A flash and burn of abiding hatred to be siphoned, but the heat of intrigue burned brighter. The pirate hit a single puff from his cigar with one side of his mouth. Awaiting. Listening.

"The Fox McCloud that you hate so much, the war hero that defeated you - you tell me you don't know who he is? Well, neither do I. I couldn't think about anything beyond my duty and survival. All I know is that I just needed to be _good_. To be virtuous and exemplary. For my family. For my country. Anyone who stood in my way was just an obstacle to that goal. And I had to kill thousands just to uphold the ideal of peace that could have only been achieved by bloodshed."

The pilot grasped his foe now with both hands, an embodiment of utmost danger and ominous wrath in his incipient hold - yet he did not relent. A rabid animal with no leash or master, reckless and craving discipline. Fox's left ear buzzed, trembling static, his throat dry from the impulse of temper. Determination and courage would be his only tools to tame this beast.

"I act like I don't care as much as I do, but the truth is I care about a lot of things. Maybe too much. Sometimes regret and empathy are so overwhelming that it's easier to pretend that I don't care. I was raised to be stoic and composed, not letting emotions control me because that's what the head of Star Fox required. And then I played into that act for so long that I forget how I genuinely feel as a living, wanting person. It's just easier to hide away with a laugh or a joke than having to confront it."

Fox's hands released his hold on Wolf, a tightness in his chest raced his heart. Small hands formed into fists that slid down Wolf's chest, catching himself from falling like scaling down a craggy, steep cliff. A single misstep now could dictate his fate.

"I got this record player spinning in my head with all this criticism and self-doubt. The tabloids, forums, and social media judge and berate me for everything I do. All of them tell these lies that I know aren’t rational or sound, but if it's all you hear all the time - that I'm evil, a failure, and worthless." Fox's cheeks hollowed, choking back a haggard sob. "T-that I'm a _murderer_ and a horrible person. You just start to believe it, you know?"

His posture crumpling as he wiped his runny nose upon his wrist, Fox sedated himself with an epic retelling of hundreds of his father's mantras, synced on separate record players and then fired off to play in grating unison. And the fledgling tears evaporated in their ducts - as they should. Never given a chance to breathe into life and pass along the sorrow within.

"Please hear me this time when I say that I still don't want to fight you, Wolf. I know I can't make up for everything I've done to you, but can we acknowledge that our feud will never make either one of us happy? When I defeated Andross, it didn't bring my father or mother back. The pain and the void their deaths left within me will never heal, no matter how much I wish it. Our bickering won't help us either. The fighting won't ever erase the animosity between us; it's just going to make it worse."

The hero peered up into the villain's woeful sentiments. Wolf's brows furrowed, lucid gaze floundering in his rival's declamation and potential omissions, an expression distant but prevalent.

"Wolf, is there any way we can start fresh, make amends, and move past this somehow? Can we ever be more than just enemies? I don't want to remember myself as someone who can only ever solve his problems through fighting. And I don't want to remember you as just this negative, limited version of who you truly are."

Wolf sighed to another defeat, a bitter declaration weighted with doubt. "Start fresh, huh? Is that even possible at this point?"

The pilot joined in with Wolf's sigh, just as bitter but more adamant in its second verse. "Maybe it's not possible to completely forgive and forget, but it's got to start somewhere. Besides, what's the alternative? The tension between us will eventually drive us mad or kill us." Fox closed his eyes, then opened, whipping out every earnest part of his being. "I ask you this as not just your enemy but a fellow warrior. A mutual pact of respect between mercenaries to lower our arms. How great can we truly be if all we do is squabble?"

Wolf rolled his cigar in his taut mouth, biting his tongue. He glared with accusations and sniffed the air, as if to detect the stench of a lie. Then his apprehension rolled off his shoulders, wilting with a stern 'hm'. A non-answer. Only one foot in the door - the other out and ready to buck back like a disobedient steed's hind legs if necessary. 

"Fox McCloud," The pirate extended a hand as if to offer a shake that then balled into a trembling fist. "This… this doesn't change the fact that I'm still your enemy. And I certainly didn't bring you here so you could feel bad for me. It's like you said before. We're mercenaries fightin' on opposite sides. What happens, happens. People lose their lives over a paycheck every day. That's just sayin' how it is."

The same fist unfurled with a gentle squeeze upon the younger man's shoulder. Tactile fingertips underneath claws that massaged the bone. A physical gesture of rapport if words were inadequate alone to accept. "But I'm willin' to put a ceasefire between us. Just for the time being. Until I-" Wolf stuttered with a visible swallow. "Until _we_ get our heads on straight again."

It was just one step and apology - an offering of a fragile olive branch shoddily taped together - but a substantial first step nevertheless. A budding of amity in a clay pot, anticipating a new home in fresh soil. But the forgiveness was one-sided, directed only at the hero below him. The pirate was unable to forgive himself. 

Fox glanced at the hand that was settled and clutched upon his shoulder. Still hardy and hazardous, but just as warm as the day before. A sense of ease slipped through his raised guard like a skeleton key to unbind his defenses, an unexpected release of tension fluttering into light giddiness. A tentative smile building with surprise for every second the pirate's hands rested upon him, until a wall of teeth was pieced together with joy. At last, the healing process within the confines of his soul could ignite and flourish.

The pilot then raised his own hand and gently placed it on his rival's. Light fingers feathered upon the bandaged knuckles, a desire that the soft touch could mend the wounds underneath. Wolf flinched, as though the act of kindness had pierced him like a bolt unleashed from a crossbow, slinging back expressions of shock, anger, and ardent passion all at once. And the lupine scrutinized Fox with a frenzy, questioning the intent. Surely his nemesis had an underlying motive to match his guilt. It was manipulation - a tool to leverage blackmail or a favor - it _had_ to be. His experience taught him affection could never be but a weapon to expose a weakness.

Their eyes collided, the pair standing close enough that Fox could see the mottle of confusion in the lupine's red iris. Every separate strand of lengthy, thick lashes to the wild, grey trim of his sharp jawline. The whiff and taste of the sun-distilled alcohol, now infused with smoke on his panting. Eventually, the pirate flinched and slipped out with one quick slide, as if Fox would suddenly clamp down like a triggered mousetrap. Wolf smoldered back - just once - mistrustful, but enthralled all the same.

"And Wolf?" Fox shivered, riding out the warmth and tension of Wolf's proximity. His arm lingered in the air, hoping to pull Wolf back and not lose this critical progress. "You're right about one thing: I am just a kid in many ways. It's not really an insult when it's the truth. I don't feel like an adult, let alone even a soldier. There's a long journey ahead of me. A lot of personal growth that I need to tackle first." Fox looked down, fingers oscillating in his hands. "Did you know that I turned twenty-three this year?"

He could hear Wolf's head tilt to the side, the shadow of a left ear flick - at attention.

"In Corneria, the legal adult age is eighteen. I can vote for my prime minister, buy property and land, and give my life to fight a war for my country. But I don't feel anything different. I never had the appropriate tools or the maturity to cope with some of the things I've seen or done. Hell, on the emotional aspect of being an adult, I'm practically stunted. They don't teach you the kind of life skills in school or basic training at the academy to handle the responsibility or an emotional breakdown. You either deal, or you fail. And if you ever fail - you're useless."

"Listen, Fox. What I'm about to ask you isn't from enemy to enemy, just merc to merc. Answer me this." Wolf turned with a heavy-lidded eye, yet impossibly soft. "Why? Why did you abandon your cause and title so easily? Don't you care what could have happened to you? What losin' would have meant for your crew? There are criminals out there even worse and crueler than I who wouldn't have hesitated to take your life."

"No mercenary takes on a contract and plays to lose. It's a business, just like any other, a bit more bloody and hands-on, but a professional one all the same. If you really put your heart and soul into the duel, I reckon you could have easily won." The pirate stomped a boot and snapped his fingers. "Damn it, you're Fox McCloud! The best pilot in this entire fuckin' galaxy! Millions look up to you for guidance and protection. Criminals tremble and piss themselves just from hearin' the name Star Fox. The prodigal son with all the talent and gifts in the world, but-" he then scoffed in disappointment. "Maybe this heroic act has gotten to your head. That you've forgotten that you're a mercenary first and foremost."

A mercenary first. Hero second. Once spliced together, could it ever be removed? Could you even have one title without the other?

"Wolf, the truth is…" A clamor drummed within Fox's ears.

_I'm at my limit. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually._

_I never wanted this life for myself. Being a soldier and a mercenary was my father's legacy - but not mine. I've been contemplating quitting Star Fox for over a few years now. And when the opportunity presented itself, I just ran with it._ Just tell him. Tell him the truth.

Fox rasped. "I don't know why I did it." 

Wolf's nose bridge rumpled with a silent snarl, astounded. "Y-you… you don't know?"

 _I could have walked away a long time ago, but I never thought of it as an option. I just let everyone else decide what's best for me because I'm a coward. What - if anything - about me even registers or screams a soldier of war? I'm not built for this shit!_ Give him the benefit of the doubt. He would understand, if you let him.

"Yeah. No clue." The pilot paced back and forth, the swing of his arms creating a gust.

"Don't patronize me, Fox." Wolf raised his voice, his body burning with exasperation. "You know exactly why."

 _I ask myself countless times - over and over again - why did it have to be me that had to fight in the war? To shoot down thousands of ships to meet their end? Why couldn't I have just had a normal life? Why can't I just be happy anymore!? And no one can answer that question for me!_ It won't ever be answered unless you ask. Aid cannot be given to those who do not seek it.

"I just don't think I'm ready to admit why just yet." Fox slumped back into his seat at the couch, pulling his knees into a cloth ball huddle. "If I do, I'm scared of what that might mean for me and everyone else."

Puffing his cheeks with a lasting, confounded exhalation, Wolf ended his note by planting his face into his hands. "Fuck."

Wolf then swaggered to the couch, taking a seat next to Fox with a firm flump of all his weight, bouncing the lighter man upward with a single pop. "I'm going to cast a wide net here, so if it doesn't apply to you, feel free to tune me out." Fox peeped from his huddle as Wolf took another drag, unleashing a twisting fog of smoke, leather, and spicy scents. "We don't get to decide the cards that we were dealt with at birth, Fox. And sometimes, it doesn't matter how much we want it to change. Fate has another plan for us, whether we like it or not. People in hell want ice water, don't mean they are gettin' it."

"I hear you." Fox squinted, wishing his mind would stop spiraling down into this pit of depression. "Doesn't stop me from wanting what everyone else has."

"But I was like you. Tired. Dead fuckin' tired. So tuckered out of being tired in the first place." The lupine pounded his chest with a thump. "So I said to myself, _fuck that shit_. I rejected those cards, said goodbye to the shell of a man I used to be and made my own rules. If the road ahead was filled with obstacles, I simply paved my own to best suit my needs. Willpower. Freewill. Determination. Those are the virtues that I cherish. Freedom and might above all else."

To make your own rules and path? The crumple of cut notebook paper and the scratch of gel pens came forth. Sounds something like Coyote Jones would say.

"After sheddin' that dead weight on my back, all the excuses and lies, I realized that I was then free to do whatever I wanted." The pirate's bushy eyebrows knitted into a frown. "Sometimes, it takes bein' at your lowest point to realize that. Never thought it would because of me."

"To be fair," Fox wiped his nose onto the fabric of his gown. "I was at the bottom of the well long before this happened. I was in denial just how far I had sunk." Sniffing, making an attempt to not appear so pathetic. "Wolf, has Leon ever divulged his philosophies to you? About his take on pain and suffering? Do you agree with that?"

"So that's where you scampered off to. The funhouse of this damn place. I take it you, uh, saw everythin', huh?" 

"Sure did." The vulpine managed a weak whimper of a laugh. "Let's just say that was an experience I won't ever forget." Fox waved his hands like he was treading water. "Y-you know I mean, with his friends, or whatever."

"Yeah. Sorry about that too." Wolf cringed. "Can you believe Leon had the nerve once to imply that I should wear one of those scanty outfits? Like I would be caught red-handed in somethin' as outrageous like that. Barely anythin' to cover me up. People would be able to see my religion."

"I can believe it, actually." Rubbing his hands together to smooth out a tingle, Fox shut his mouth tight. The pirate did enjoy his iconic attire of leather and chains; a chest harness didn't appear that illogical of a progression point. And if Wolf did choose to experiment, there wouldn't be a peep of a protest from the pilot.

"If you've known Leon for as many moons as I have, you learn to let him do his own thing. He'll find a way to go about it, no matter how many times you tell him otherwise." Wolf slouched into the couch, his muscular arms folded behind his head. "He ain't necessarily wrong on a lot of topics, but Leon's outlook has got a soberin' approach to it that's a bit unsettlin' - even for me."

"Just a _bit_ unsettling?" Fox puffed his chest. "This is Leon we are talking about. Mr. whips and daggers and all that."

Wolf abated with a few nods. "I know it might be confusin' for ya, me being what, a criminal and all that. But I don’t agree with everythin' he has to say, or his obsession with inflictin' pain on others. I like to fight and battle to test my own strength, and how I can improve my mettle. But the act of battle shapes me, not from the intent to harm another, and that's the key difference. Sure, people go through shit in their lives, and it makes us stronger. To suffer is to live."

"But the more they suffer," the pirate ground his teeth. "They might just spend the rest of their lives tryin' to figure out why they had to suffer to begin with."

Studying the shades and strained tics in Wolf's expression, Fox nodded back. It was as if Wolf was speaking from experience. "I've heard a lot of bullshit lately since I've been here, but that statement I can agree with."

Wolf snorted. Fox was unsure if it was out of annoyance or acknowledgment. "If you ask me what my take on all of this is, Fox? There's no morality or karmic balance in this world - no fairness or justice. I was a fool to think I could ever get my hands on any. Good men are never rewarded for their righteous deeds, and the wicked are rarely ever punished for their crimes. Power is the only thing that matters and has dominion above all else. Without it, people can and will take everything you have. Weakness is a death sentence."

Wolf extended his fingers as if a skull trophy was within his grasp - and then crunched. "Life is about winnin' and stayin' on top of the pack. And the only way you win is to hang on to the edge no matter what lightnin', hail, or rocks life throws at you. To endure. Just like you have and will continue to do."

_We're positive, we endure, and we smile through the worst of it._

But what good is positivity and hope if nothing ever changes?

What good is endurance if the root of our problems is swept under the rug, never uncovered, and left to rot?

And what good is a smile if it isn't an authentic reflection of our own emotions? Just a mask of deception to placate another?

But what if the day for change never comes? Hope will say to believe, no, _demand_ it will come. But the mind and all of its fragility can only accept disappointment over and over until its disillusionment bludgeoned them back - violent and dead. And what remains is a husk of man, reduced to the vindictive truth that life offered them. Fox didn't want to let pessimism be the only representative to vouch for him any longer. Without hope for something better, the yearning to run up the hill for what possibilities lay past the horizon, what else did he have?

Fox nestled his chin on his knees. "I don't just want to endure anymore, Wolf. I want to feel _better_ again. I want to feel like myself once more."

Wolf hummed to himself. As if Fox's plea was futile - like he had held the same desire long once before, only to then abandon it on a forgotten, dirt road and never look back.

Picking at the cuticles on his thumbs, a shyness washed over Fox. "Did I say something wrong?"

The pirate spoke, his voice hoarse and even more gravelly than ever. "No. Not at all." Picking himself up at the knees, Wolf lurched with a grunt, a beckoning wave over his shoulder. "Come here, Fox. I have somethin' I want to show you."

Fox followed his nemesis to a once-hidden interface, glowing blue in the middle of the window. Wolf tapped upon the buttons to input a passcode that then blacked out the entirety of the view to the galaxy, converting the expansive view into a giant, interactable monitor. The observatory now brimmed and pulsed with red lights that emitted from the screen, highlighting every edge and surface in its somber glow. Composite parts of a holographic sphere then synthesized together, congruent pieces of a 3D model merged whole once again.

And the sphere spun on its floating axis, a place of the forgotten and castaways. Of the desolate, corruption of a world sundered by war. The final destination and last beacon of terror: Venom.

"So I was right all along," The pilot shook, submerged in a reproving dread. "Nothing has changed at all! You're still working for Venom after all these years!"

"You _don't_ know?" Wolf drawled with cutting cynicism.

"Huh?" Fox blinked in offense from the sudden tone shift. "Know what?"

"Lord have mercy. I suppose I can trade a history lesson." With a lift of a chin, the lupine directed back to the hologram. "Look closer."

Fox homed in on the visual cues and logged notes of the spherical projection. Its grid graphed with troop formations outlining a pincer attack at several capital locations. Listings of supply channels that funneled off-world and enemy pirate organizations' names escorting Venom's space caravans. Notes of a strategy to bomb key nuclear reactor points and locations of various anti-air and land missile sites. This wasn't just a map of Venom; these were… attack plans?

"No way. What does this all mean?" Holding upon a single arm, Fox stuttered with bewilderment. "Just what is going on here?"

"I think you're startin' to understand. Think before you speak next time." The hologram's light reflected on the pirate's stern face, etching out the swathes of fine fur. "The sectors of Lylat outside of Cornerian jurisdiction ain't big enough to have two superpowers crammed in, especially when they got bad blood. To be direct, Sargasso is at war, Fox McCloud, and the remnants of the Venomian Empire is our prime enemy. If there's anythin' I've beaten Corneria at, it's takin' their top spot on Venom's shit list."

Fox shook in place. "But why? Why would you turn your back on your empire that funded the creation of Star Wolf?"

"Why?" Grumbled the lupine. "Because it ain't my empire. I had no allegiance to Andross to begin with. He was nothin' but a steppin' stone to my path of glory. My last defeat to you made me realize that I ain't dyin' for another cause other than my own."

"When you killed Andross five years ago, it left a vacuum of power in an empire on the verge of destruction and desperate for a savior. So me being the connivin' bastard I am, I used it to place myself into a leadership position. But I didn't care to lead Venom; I wanted my own territory and stompin' grounds. So instead I started a coup and ransacked as many troops and supplies I could haul back with me." Wolf chuckled with low, rolling lines. "Let's just say the successor to the throne - our good pal, Andrew - didn't take too kindly to that."

The hologram was replaced with a collage of camera footage of a great battle, detailing the Venomian capital city's wreckage. Images dated and marked at the bottom corner indicated this was most likely recovered hardware from Venom drones recording a rebellion. Next, a clashing sea of troops under a hail of laser fire. And at the vanguard of the charge stood Wolf O'Donnell, hollering a warcry and blazing ahead as the skirmish leader. Single-handedly wielding an assault rifle discharging canisters of bullet shells to the floor, mowing down the incoming troops' first wave. And the other hand hoisted a burning Venomian flag, colors now charred black in the toxic, planetary air.

"I gave the survivin' soldiers of Venom a choice. Stay under the banner of a mad, vanquished dictator, live another miserable decade in this poisonous hell hole of a planet, and face another defeat against the Cornerian Army. Or join forces with me, and I could establish a haven for the forgotten and outlaws, be unfettered from the chains of a despot, and give them a second chance they crave—freedom from oppression. So half of the remaining troops joined with me, the other half vowing their allegiance to their new emperor. And Venom and Sargasso have been at odds ever since."

“So I was half right.” The tension in Fox’s body gradually began to dissipate. “The soldiers and workers I saw before really were once a part of Venom, but now they’re serving a new cause.”

Clasping his chin, Fox mused upon this new revelation. The Sargasso-controlled territory of the Meteo belt served as a natural blockade in the southern quadrants of Cornerian's space field. From a strategic standpoint, Sargasso could serve as a critical defense line should Venom ever choose to invade in a second Lylat war, allowing Corneria to focus bolstering their forces off-world in the eastern and northern sectors. The enemy of Fox's enemy could potentially be a stout ally. 

It begged the age-old question: Which of the two evils is the more treacherous one? Was it the cold, methodical calculations of a passionate leader? A fortress built for a thieving society, yet somehow capable of honor and order? Or was it the violent, unpredictable ruthless of a mad dictator, selfishness incarnate committed to the path of wanton destruction merely for the sake of it?

The pirate spoke after a pregnant pause. "Fox, the reason why I'm tellin' you all this is because I brought you here to tie up loose ends. One day soon enough, Andrew will retaliate, and I will be ready for him. But the next battle will be a pivotal one and most likely a bloodbath. Massive casualties are expected on both sides, and no one is leavin' without significant losses."

"Are you included in those significant losses?" A numbness dipped each of Fox's fingers.

Wolf rustled in place, groaning out a chord with a miserable half-grin, almost as if he were relieved. "If I were to die in this battle... I just needed to get peace of mind for my own sake. Whether or not I had what it took to be the best warrior in the galaxy. To get some of my dignity back that I lost." The pirate shook his head, smoke sweeping in his movements. "Pathetic, huh?"

"You needed closure that badly?" Fox said, now indignant. "Even if it meant you losing everything if I had defeated you again? To throw away all your achievements just to win?"

And Wolf growled, brusque and humbled. "Yeah. Even that."

The leader of Star Wolf. The most fearsome pirate in the galaxy. The Lord of the notorious Sargasso Space Station. How could Wolf not know the extent of his power or greatness? Were those titles and notoriety not enough to sustain his own ego and conceit?

Fox pieced together every fragment of his pain, mirroring his meager self-worth to the man in front of him. The demons, Leon had said. How they haunt our thoughts, debilitate our every move, weakening our flesh until one day they assume control. It doesn't matter how strong one may appear or what tools they possess: anyone can be a victim of the abyss. Just how many demons were crawling upon Wolf's back? Compared to the rival Fox has known all these years, this Wolf O'Donnell before him now was near unrecognizable.

"Enough about me. I know you're itchin' to get out of here and back home, right?" Wolf tossed the butt of his last cigar in a bin, pulling out a new replacement from its casing to a lit flame. "Listen, I'd be willin' to let you go, Fox, if you are willin' to do me a favor. I've got a problem that needs a solution, and I figured you'd be the perfect man for the job."

Fox arched a brow. "Depends on the request."

The hologram of Venom faded out into static waves, its image then replaced with a 3D model of Sargasso. Wolf's prized fortress focused in its three tiers of sectors - Upper, Mid, and Low - accented and banded in different colors. Each sector was marked and slashed with potential infiltration sites, as well as a listing of potential suspects’ names. 

"My counter-intelligence team has passed along intel that there is a Venomian spy in my ranks relaying critical information of our defensive efforts back to Andrew. And just like a poison, the longer they remain and fester at the heart of my base, the more they will leave us vulnerable, where even a cure may be too late. I want you to chat up Panther for more info and find this spy - and then dispose of them. Shoot em' dead and push them out the airlock." Wolf sneered, realizing the ludicrousy of his nemesis attempting such a vile act. "Or, knowin' how you are, use your heroic means of diplomacy to persuade them to leave. I don't care how as long as it gets done."

"Hold on a second. Let me get this straight," Fox said, trailing the map of areas at risk of being breached. "You're going to release me from my cell, allow me to roam around your facilities without supervision, and expect me to carry out your 'request' for you?"

"Yeah, I thought I was pretty clear."

"What's the catch?"

"The catch is you get an opportunity to escape, and I get a problem taken care of." Wolf gritted out, and then as a taunt: "Don't tell me you want to stay here longer?"

Fox nursed the idea of smacking the sarcasm right off of Wolf's face. Instead, the pilot's hands stayed glued to his sides, realizing the thousands of souls wishing to do precisely the same to him. "In all honesty, what's your real motive in all this? Doesn't seem like the smartest idea to let me out, if I were you."

"My men are a bit busy, and I can't afford to pull my officers from their duties at the moment. You're perfectly capable of doing the job; you're just here on different terms. But besides productivity? Entertainment." Wolf barked, earnest in that last word. "Get the job done or fail, hero. Either way, I'm curious to see what you'll do and how you'll do it. How Fox McCloud handles a job."

"I suppose I could use the fresh filtered air in your fine establishment. But how am I going to have access anywhere? Or be left alone by your men?"

"You'll be needing this. Pin it to your collar later." Wolf rummaged in his front pocket and tossed a small object toward Fox, who promptly caught it. Fox opened the palm of his hand to reveal a silver emblem resembling the Star Wolf insignia.

Fox admired the cut of its quality, holding the sigil up to the starlight for a better inspection. "Nifty. What is it exactly?"

"Your protection from getting shanked. It will let any grunt of the Wolf Pack know that you're being kept under my watchful eye. It symbolizes that you're a part of my 'inner circle' of the UpperSector and will give you clearance access to Sargasso's wings. _Most_ of them, I should say. Yours, in particular, has been rigged for partial access, so we don't have top-secret areas meddled with or a prison break anytime soon." Wolf rustled an item within his jacket, unhooking a clamp with a snap. "Also, before I forget."

The pirate revealed a signature Wolf Pack blaster, finished with vivid red and black decals along the slick reinforced alloy barrel. The gun was outfitted with a military-grade firepower pack, ballistics capable of shredding through reinforced plating or piercing a barrier. Fox knew a weapon that packed this much of a punch had a potent recoil, definitely requiring a two-handed grip to fire. 

"Y’might be needin’ it. If you’re in a debacle or the Wolf Pack threatens you with your life, I'm willin' to look the other way. Just don't cause too much of a ruckus, as my men can and _will_ shoot back."

"Hopefully it won't come to that." Fox muttered, weighing both the distinguished insignia and the sandstone grip of the blaster in his possession. A bitter trickle spiked on the hero's tongue. Something felt off about this whole request. To fight one day and then be handed a weapon the next. Far too fortuitous and straightforward for his enemy to produce every tool necessary to make an escape. The white raven's advice whispered in his ears: _Do not play into the traps Wolf may lay in your path_.

Wolf swaggered back into a perfect posture, shoulders back with a cocky demeanor that radiated superiority. "But if you should choose to use this as an opportunity to escape - and you manage to do so - then good on ya, Fox. I can at least take pride in knowin' you were the man I thought you were. Either outcome is a win for me."

The insufferable arrogance to supply a weapon without a second thought or consideration was lunacy - or an act of brilliance. Wolf was a man of many strengths, and one was the ability to slice right through the deceptive bullshit of any lie or mask. _High stakes it is then_. Every contract and dogfight was a gamble of life, and a great mercenary didn't take a contract that they couldn't complete and cash in on. And his last bet was that the armed hero was far too upstanding and righteous to kill him in cold blood - and Wolf was right.

"So the choice is yours, my rival. Find the spy within my ranks, sneak out back to Corneria, or fight your way out." The pirate blew a hook shot of smoke that entangled Fox's like a serpent's choking coil. "What will you choose?"

Was this a trap, or was this a test? Either way, Fox couldn’t back away from this challenge. One that he would not just pass with flying colors but excel past expectations and prove himself worthy. Atonement for his failure from the fight the other day, as well as to uphold their pact of a ceasefire. Earning that credibility back, craving to be worthy again in the pirate's sight, even if it was from his own nemesis.

"If I find this spy, you'll let me go?" Fox’s eyes flicked up from the sigil in his grasp. "You promise?"

Wolf planted his feet in a wide stance and nodded. "I promise. You have my word."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't. But when I make a promise, I keep them. Which is why I don't make many. Assumin' you don't go and try to switch up the rules like you did yesterday."

Fox snickered. "A pirate with honor? Quite the walking contradiction."

"And you're a pilot without a ship to fly. So I guess that makes us two peas in a pod." Wolf offered his hand to shake the deal just as a mercenary would sign a contract. The same clawed hand Fox denied during their first encounter.

Talking to Wolf was akin to walking a tightrope miles high in the sky. Go too slow and get cut down by his crude, disparaging remarks. Go too fast, and you might skim over the real intent and veiled encouragement behind his words. When one did find the right momentum to walk the line, each step was perilous, requiring the utmost rumination behind every action and thought. And for what: to say that one could stand toe-to-toe with his brazen pirate protocols and endure his surly, taciturn glares?

But that was yesterday. Today had been a breakthrough, a hammer and chisel cracking of an ancient stone statue for a minuscule glimpse into the authentic soul. The real face of the man behind the façade of the Pirate Lord commanding an army of criminals and outcasts - Fox wanted to meet _that_ person. Not the Wolf O'Donnell trading gunfire in his Wolfen or the constant bickering in every dog fight.

"Alright. Fine. I'll do it." His tiny, slim hand fit perfectly snug within the grooves of Wolf's weather-beaten, calloused pads. And the pirate shook back with a firm, vigorous gyration that blasted Fox's thin frame upward like a rocket off the ground, landing with a dizzy spell. 

"Done deal," Wolf’s canines poked out as he smirked, slightly less terrifying than usual. A conscious attempt at mitigating his disposition that was mildly successful. "But we can't let you walk around any longer in that hackneyed getup, can we?"

"Computer?" The pirate called out to the room. "Scan Fox McCloud's measurements and send up a uniform to the observatory deck, will ya darlin'?"

With a click of confirmation, the ceiling parted in the middle to reveal an ample, oval camera lens. It then emitted a beam of light that enveloped the hero's body, buzzing with the chatter of hundreds of calculations and variables at a lightning-fast speed. Fox jittered in place, a palm over his squint to lessen the blinding shine. He half expected to next be vacuumed up by a UFO or alien device, foretelling what horrid (probing) experiments awaited him.

The static, expressionless AI chimed in. "Request initiated. Scanning in progress of uniform measurements and- ERROR." Fox jerked back at the loud, ear-piercing beep that rang thrice like a firefighter cruiser's wail. "Subject Fox McCloud. Please refrain from moving until the scanning has completed." 

Wolf jutted his chin, scheming to piggyback off the moment. "Y'heard the lady. Quit buckin' around, you rascal."

The whir of drivers and calculations stirred into a finale of a - _ding_. "Analysis complete. Subject Fox McCloud's height is approximately five feet and four inches. Weight is estimated at 110 pounds. Shoe size 7. Measurement compilation of chest, midsection, waist, and leg length: extra small."

The lupine snorted a peal of smoke and laughter through his nose, almost dropping his cigar. "Hah! Extra small? You're practically a munchkin!" Wolf then batted his eye as if coddling a newborn. "Adorable." 

Fox shot back a scathing glare while frozen in place - tight at the mouth. He might have gotten a thrill at the pirate's affability from insults into playful wisecracks if it wasn't for that last remark. He was _not_ adorable. Not ever.

_One-eyed bastard. Muscle-brained dimwit. Corn-shuckin', Whiskey-drippin', loafin-around clodhopper._

Fox crinkled his forehead. Wait - that didn’t sound right. What was the correct sequence to those barbs again?

"Error. Exact uniform match unable to be replicated within the warehouse inventory. Sending the next best possible match as an auxiliary replacement."

A picture frame on the wall opened steadily, like a wheeled gate unlocking a safe in a bank. In actuality, the portrait was a vent or chute meant to displace and transport items from one room to another. Clever. Fox walked over and stood on his tiptoes, retrieving his speedy delivery from within the wall. The pile of fresh leather was weightier and denser than it appeared, though probably he was just still winded from the fight. Pants, boots, shirts, and the same black jacket Wolf donned, along with the emblem stitched of spear, claw, and moon.

"If they look shitty, that's on me, right?" Wolf called out. "And, uh," then choking back a pant as if he were breathless, stealing a furtive glance to Fox's form. "Welp, um, heh." Some kind of vague, but sly interest in his expression. "Jeez, that there is somethin' I didn't expect."

"What was that for?" Fox winced, holding onto the bundle of his new uniform. "Are you hungry or something? Why are you gawking at me?"

Wolf leaned one shoulder against the wall, crossed a foot over the other, and took a hit off his cigar. A grin with every tooth and fang tore open like he just unearthed the secret of a lifetime. "You know your ass is just hangin' out for the gods, right?"

"Oh, whatever." The pilot blubbered his lips and fanned an unenthusiastic hand to dismiss the pirate. "Don't tell me you're going to make a snide comment like Leon about how flat my ass is too. Besides, Dr. Erwood put a few safety pins in the back so that wouldn't happen and-"

Fox glazed over his shoulder. Skiing down the open cut back of his gown, to the dip of his spine, next to the wag and orange-white paintbrush poof of his tail. Eventually he arrived at the curve and convex of his hindquarters, all unmistakably plump, visible, and nude as the day he was born. His neck creaked with slow-motion movements, turning to the couch, the sight of piled clothes pins snug in the indentations of its cushion folds.

_Oh my god. Wolf was right. It was out._

Fox's face flushed as his neck and ears boiled to feverish heat. Humiliation electrified his skin as if jouncing every millimeter of his orange fur to a pale, ghostly white. He then angled his torso away with a screech from the lupine, tugging the gown's layers to cover his modesty and self-respect. Why couldn't have this happened with anyone - just anyone else - but Wolf O'Donnell? May the sweet mercy of death take him now.

"I thought you were a pilot, McCloud. Didn't realize you were a baker servin' up cakes." Cackling deep from his belly, Wolf rocked on the back on his heels. Cigar propped from his grin like a toothpick. "How long were your cheeks hoardin' oxygen for? This whole freakin' time? And we were havin' such a serious chit chat too, you lil' exhibitionist!"

Fox shuffled back, one hand balancing his new clothes and items like a waiter, the other clamped his back with a fistful of fabric. "W-what are you doing? Stop that!"

"Stop laughin'? No way, this is hilarious!" Slapping his mighty thighs, Wolf keeled at the knees from his fit, his thunderous laughter nearly rattling the dock. "You're the one paradin' like a balloon float on holiday. I'm just takin' in the sights. Can't fault a guy for lookin' at what happens to be right in front of him." He pounded his chest to dislodge the last of a stint of glee, yet a trace fondness interlaced with his voice. "And if Leon thinks that's flat, he's just jealous."

"No, stop commenting on it!" Fox's tongue slanted as his annoyance suddenly swiveled into astonishment. Tail swished a few, encouraging bats. "…You don't think it's flat? Really?"

"Hah!" Wolf peeked over again with a twinkle in his eye and wheedled: "Now I'm thinkin' you did this on purpose. Crafty thang, ain't ya? Thought you could seduce your way outta here with a lil' T and A." He then snorted. "I guess just the A in your case."

Fox's heart galloped in place. Leon being jealous? Taking in the sights and seducing his way out?

Was that… a flirt? Slick and smooth talk from his prime rival like being hit up by a bar patron for a sleazy, one-night stand? It couldn't be. Wolf was the textbook, dictionary definition of masculinity. That titan body worthy of the gods, the smoky gruff tones that resounded deep within his core, with an imposing presence that demanded no quarters respect. Fox had always pictured two busty women inevitably around each of his rival's arms, doing whatever activities most… _other_ men pursued. His logical assumption was Wolf's teasing had no other ulterior motive than a serrated jest to twist a nerve.

Bill Grey often had similar banter at the Academy, pretending to romance and woo his fellow cadet, amused by its impossibility and absurdity. But that was an inside joke and mutual laugh between comrades, a levity from the strenuous exercise drills of boot camp, or a distraction within the lecture halls. Solidarity between a straight jock and (once partially closeted) gay prep, both comfortable with their sexuality and not letting a mere difference hamper a friendship. But there was no feasible way Wolf batted for Fox's team, unless the pirate dabbled as a free-spirit, willingly perched at the median on both sides of the playing field.

But there were no absolutes. No law or doctrine that was never at risk to be replaced or overruled. Fox's existence and demeanor were far from what an archetype, fairy-tale hero entailed. Some scrawny, young man whose flying skills and incredible talents transcended even the most seasoned of brassy commanders and officers, but still were unable to fit within the imprints left in the cement of his father's footsteps. The same notion of exceptions to stereotypes was applicable to even Wolf.

An energetic tingle of inquisitiveness washed over Fox. Perhaps there was more to the pirate than he had first believed.

Fox examined the deck for a place to hide and change. Not a single corner or tent pitched for privacy. He fluttered a gaze back to Wolf, hoping the lupine could take the hint. "… Are you going to turn around or what?"

"Why?" Wolf chirped with a rare, innocent tone - suspiciously so. "We're both men. Pretend it's a locker room."

"I don't even change in front of my squadmates, let alone my worst enemies."

"Pansy." Wolf complied and faced the other wall, covering his good eye. "Fine. There. Happy now?"

"Are _you_ happy?" Fox snickered as he let the gown hit the floor. "Sounds like you almost wanted to watch."

The pirate grunted, vision still obfuscated, but enjoying the challenge. "What's there to watch? If I wanted to see a twig fit in a suit, I'd go find Leon. I bet you both have to run around the shower to get wet."

The computer didn't lie. Fox's new uniform was not a perfect fit by any means, but better than a dress cut-open like a potato sack. The leather jacket felt more like an oversized raincoat, recalling the laborious times he went shopping with his mother. Hours locked in the department store dressing room, handing off new clothes underneath the door, all larger than his current size to grow into. James protested that the checking account was brimming and to buy as many articles of clothes needed, but Vixy's frugal sensibilities would not listen. 

Thankfully, the belt managed to set every loose part and crease in place that snapped like a rubber band. No surprise ass reveals this time - not if Fox had anything to do about it. Insignia pinned, gun strapped and heavy to his side - he was ready.

"Ok. Done." Fox's cheeks flushed as Wolf turned his way, expecting the inevitable slander. "Be honest. It looks stupid on me, doesn't it?"

"Nah. The outfit suits you. Looks better on ya than your usual Star Fox green and white. With my help, you might pull off lookin' like a badass." Wolf's mouth cracked open, his tongue swabbing across his fangs. "Besides, you'll grow into it. You're due to get your growth spurt eventually, right?"

And there was the jest, right on cue. Fox lifted a dubious eyebrow. "Yeah, laugh it up, Wolf. You're so tall, you're practically a one-eyed ogre. Mirrors beg for mercy when you walk past."

"An ogre? Beggin' mirrors? Well, _damn_. That's the first time anyone had the balls to say that." Wolf beamed with pride as if Fox passed along a compliment. "You've got a smart mouth on ya, and yer always willin' to throw back. My kind of fun. Maybe you do have what it takes to stroll with the big dogs here."

Fox displayed a bashful grin, gratifying to spar words with someone who had the wayward wit to match his own. "I can at least say you can take a joke, unlike some people I know."

When the pirate had not been his abrasive self with that loutish, gang-mentality, his rustic wiles and rugged air did have charm. Strapping and tall, that solid chest swelling with every menacing laugh. Those broad shoulders fit to be climbed and rode upon for a better vantage point. Nefarious contours of the eye and muzzle, vigilance wrapped in secrecy but inclined to depart with practical wisdom to those who have raptured his attention. Fox was loathe to admit, but Wolf was the most handsome man he had ever met, yet the most dangerous and contradictory. 

"It seems like you're all set. If things get dicey out in Sargasso's den, find your way back to me, ya hear? And if you do manage to escape, then best of luck to ya." Wolf then lifted a finger to stall the moment. A thought that he almost forgot to mention. "Also, this conversation we had here stays between us, got it? I don't need people to know that I was-" he scratched the bottom of his stern chin, rubbernecking away, "… _lenient_ with you. I've got a hard reputation to maintain here in order to lead my men."

"I won't tell a soul. The stars only know that I'm not going through the trouble of getting on your bad side again." The pilot snapped into a practiced salute he had not displayed since his academy days. "I guess I'll be off then."

Fox sighed out a puff of satisfaction as he walked out the deck. That went much better than he expected - all things considered. And-

Suddenly the balance of his footfalls gave out, his world tumbling and spinning around, tripping on a snag from the carpet in the halls. With skillful grace of spreading arms like a bird mid-flight, Fox caught his balance and muttered a prayer in gratitude, only to hear a faint snort of smoky laughter from behind. He turned with just enough time before the doors closed to stick his tongue out back at its sarcastic source on a quick whim. The pirate dropped his jaw to retort back, waggling and ready, but-

_Ding. Ding. Ding._

Too late - doors shut with a satisfying clank. Fox placed his hands on his hips, remarkably smug. Got the last word in this time, Wolf.

Fox looked down at the source of his fall. Not a displaced tug in the carpet or a tumble of lousy luck, but instead a letter folded in half, bleached into fine aged parchment, now torn and imprinted with boot marks. He ripped the sticker seal with a pinky claw slice, unfolded the inscribed paper with a message written with an ink-tipped, quill pen. The vulpine then read aloud its contents.

* * *

Dear little lost kit,

Apologies in advance, I'm just too nosy for my own good.

Should you pursue the spy or fight your way out? Ever the dilemma. To your dismay, but to my amusement.

If you should fight, I'll be waiting by your Arwing at the hangar in MidSector. I want to see those hurricane kicks of yours in action once more, but this time against my dancing blades. Dare to waltz with me on the blood-covered dance floor? I wonder just how high an octave you will scream once I bury my knives into you? How many of the Wolf Pack bodies will you step over to face me?

But if your safety is your top priority, seek out the Quartermaster of the LowSector. Ask about a shipment of missing platinum crates for our weapons division. There you will find the answer you seek.

I am simply dying with excitement to know what your next move shall be. And yes, the comparison to death is quite apropos to the situation.

Warmest regards, my kit.

Leon

P.S. **I know about the book**.

* * *

Fox gulped down a bubble of fright. No plans for a last-minute heroic dive to intercept the howling bullet that was Leon's wrath. The fault would have a return address shipped and labeled right to Panther's doorstep instead. With this new lead, he wouldn't need to consult the champion of roses any longer, not wanting to stick around to see what nasty punishments Leon had in store for his flight mate. Regardless, the hero admired the exquisite quality in the handwriting. Did Leon want Falco's feather to work on his penmanship, perhaps?

"Nah, who am I kidding." He folded the letter in his new jacket pocket, not pondering further about the alleged Falco shrine and its disturbing implications.

Finding his way back to the elevator, Fox reached to unpin his insignia to the unlocking scanner - and then paused. His fingers twitched to the familiar curve and handle of a blaster's hold, cold slits of observing eyes upon him. He envisioned Leon dancing on the prowl in the shadows, daggers in betwixt every weaving finger like a fan, itching to be unleashed.

To escape to the hangar where his Arwing was docked, or plummet to the unknown in the LowSector?

Whatever his choice was: Sargasso was now open to him.

* * *

Next Chapter: **Subterfuge**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Another chapter completed. 
> 
> I feel like I am going to have a habit of saying this, but this chapter was the hardest to write so far. After posting the last chapter, I fell into a slump questioning my ability to actually convey the messages I am trying to get across with this story. Due to your kind words and viewership, I realize that I had to pull myself out of that funk and not give up. I have to remind myself this is just fanfiction and something for fun, so to not always take it so seriously. Your reviews give me courage, so thank you for taking the time to comment, even if it's just a simple sentence, every comment brightens my day like you wouldn't believe. I most likely would not have the energy to continue if not for your support.
> 
> To those that are wondering: "When the hell is the ship going to start?" You're in luck. Very soon, I promise! 
> 
> If you recall back in Chapter 2 (Outlier), I had a description of it being the start of the First Act. To give some insight, No, I Don't is divided into three acts. There is currently one more chapter in Act One, and once Act Two hits, every single chapter from that point on until the end of the story is devoted to the development of the Fox/Wolf relationship. So all the gooey, fluffy, romantic parts you crave will be served on a platter shortly. Please stick around and get your life preservers on, because this ship will set sail!
> 
> If anyone ever wants to get in touch with me with a DM, I just created a twitter account for that purpose. I should say I don't know how much exactly I'll be posting there, but eventually, I may use it as a way to give story updates or have it be a personal blog, but right now it is just a tool to connect with anybody who'd like to chat. :) And don't think you would be bothering me, I am currently on full telework and stuck inside all day - anything is a welcome distraction. Talk Star Fox to me!
> 
> Twitter: @IxodeSucks
> 
> Also to those who are curious why I went with the country accent for Wolf, this is why: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2Oayhk8yOI
> 
> ~ Ixode


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